《Midnight&#x27;s Diaries: The Overwoods [Smoke Format]》


 --I--

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    --I--

    I wasn''t planning to stay more than half an hour.

    "Kaylee!" I had to get her attention- she had the configuration files, and I had homework.

    Okay, maybe not homework.

    A man and his golden retriever ran past as I made my decision. I spotted a rock the size of my shoe, made sure the dog and its owner were far enough away, and aimed at the window. There wasn''t any glass to break.

    "Well," I whispered. "You made me."

    Strands of my hair- more black than usual- caught between my lips as I exhaled, aiming; calculating trajectory and line and distance. I felt fire inside my left hand as vapors of breath swirled in the wind, turning white in the frozen-yet-humid "summer" Overwoods air.

    "Made you what?" The voice was in front of me, as well as behind me, to my left and right and center.

    Tendons in my fingers twitched, particularly the ones around the metacarpals leading up to my left wrist. I glanced over at it to make sure it wasn''t still bleeding. While it was scarred and calloused from years of being tied with rope or with other rough material (or sometimes, mercifully, bed sheet fabric), it at least wasn''t gushing blood.

    Anymore.

    I put the rock down. "Made me waste my time," I said, but not out loud, and also not hushed. And also not with my mouth open. "If you''re going to read my mind, then please, can you AT LEAST do it faster next time?"

    We weren''t glaring at each other- at least not physically. Though whenever we did, I''d usually match her stare with mine until we''d both explode in hysterical fits of laughter.

    This wasn''t one of those days, though.

    I heard her voice again.

    "Do you have the money?"

    "Yes."

    "Come upstairs."

    "No."

    I waited for about a minute, then the front door opened. Kaylee stepped out and walked towards me. I almost flinched.

    She spoke physically this time. "I''m not gonna bite you, you know." She looked around. There was just a touch of nervousness in her usually bright voice when she spoke again. "My brother might."

    "I''m literally gay."

    "That''s the problem," she said. "He likes you."

    "Ew."

    "I really think you''d make a great brother-in-law!" She had this kind of lilted Southern US accent- something that was nowadays very common here. "Don''t you?"

    I said nothing.

    "Bonfires, Thanksgiving festivals, Christmases around a fireplace, you, me, Caleb, and the family? It''ll be so wonderful!"

    A combustifly, lethargic and slow from the green-tinted turquoise Overwoods snowflakes, droned its way by and softly illuminated my reflection off of a broken vinyl-and-fiberglass window. My eyes were still gray. Virtually colorless light gray, and still slowly returning to brown. A set of very ugly memories clutched my neck and the black elastic band that tied my hair back. It was impossible to breathe or speak.

    And then I heard myself answer.

    "I don''t have a family."

    At that, she looked me dead in the eye, her eyebrows furrowed in... in I don''t know. Hate? Suspicion? Anger? Annoyance? Whatever. At the time I didn''t care what she felt or what she thought; I didn''t have the time to. At the time, it was the least of all my concerns.

    I had plenty. Too many, just to understate it.

    Her expression changed. Her eyes were almost the same shade of color as mine- except for the times when mine had turned gray, of course. And in case you''re wondering how that happens- don''t. Because either way, you''ll find out in a little bit.

    She lightly placed her hands on my shoulders. It was something her brother did to me a lot, too.

    A lot more, in fact.

    "Well, you have me," she said. "You''ll understand that one day."

    Me being the marshmallow that I am, I had the best response: I said nothing.

    "Both of my parents absolutely adore you," she continued. "Especially one of them."

    Um, no, I thought to myself. I''m pretty sure one of them hates me.

    Kaylee rolled her eyes.

    "Only when he''s drunk!" she said. "He hates everyone. You''re an exception to that; you should see how special you are."

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    I looked around us, from the empty houses, to the ruins of a school across the street. "Is there a reason we had to meet here?"

    "It was safest," she replied.

    "I have the money," I said. I was running out of time. "If you can give me the flash drive, I''ll be on my way."

    Kaylee Ann Davenport was the youngest of the Davenports; like me, she was 17, and we both were born on March 20th. Caleb was her older brother. Their parents- Henry and Scott Davenport- owned a security agency.

    I took the money out of my wallet. "Thirteen hundred." I counted the crumpled paper bills. "If I remember correctly?"

    For a moment, she didn''t speak. And then what she said was: "Keep it."

    I unhooked the elastics of the cheap, black polyester face mask I was wearing that day. People in the Overwoods still wore them, despite the fact that the last unanticipated pandemic was millennia ago. Or at least that''s what people told me.

    I only wore one to- and I say this in quotes- "fit in."

    I folded the black mask that someone insisted I wear. I did it for him, not for me.

    "Keep it?" I almost laughed. I''ve been played with before; it was never fun. "Look, I can''t really even be here right now. Let''s be done with this, and go. Please."

    "Danny, you don''t have to pay us." She took something from the pocket of her shirt. It was small, a metallic red. The flash drive. "Caleb talked to Dad, Dad talked to people, and they were able to get the files without having to do anything special, anything with money involved."

    She handed the flash drive to me and for a moment all I could do was stare at it.

    I was 17, a self-taught gymnast who wasn''t good enough to compete anywhere. I had no family. In a filthy and dangerous world; in a place now known as the Overwoods- once the most populated area in a place they called the Philippines eons ago, but now completely destroyed and reduced to less than half its original size, gathering typhoons and blizzards and dust since the fallout from Experiment Overwood (and also now the only island in the whole continent)- which as far as I''ve seen isn''t the best place to be. Though I wouldn''t know really; I''ve never been any place else.

    Either there was something in my eyes or my vision was going a bit blurry. The sun was setting; the sky was purple and red, and the water in my eyes was making it all smear together.

    "Which of your dads is the Dad that Caleb spoke with?" I said.

    "Henry."

    "Oh," I said. I felt stunned, speechless. It must not have had anything to do with me. I wasn''t important enough.

    Kaylee looked at me again, and without her lips moving, she said, "''Ew,'' right?"

    I cleared my throat. Though it wasn''t necessary- I didn''t speak again when I turned and walked away.

    The Davenports were telepaths, rich, powerful. Truly I felt lucky, to have anything to do with them at all. They had done quite a bit for me, and I was grateful, I still am. But it wasn''t me I was thinking about.

    --

    I was covered in snow when I arrived at Vicinity Four. I once read in a book from my school library that there used to never be snow here.

    I checked my watch. 9 o''clock, PM.

    It took me a while to make absolutely sure no one was around, then I pushed past a glass door and walked into an old, abandoned strip mall. No lights were on, but that I was used to. I was shaking when I removed my jacket.

    I allowed my eyes to adjust to the dimness and kept walking. "To West Wing Extension," read a sign on my left, a sign wrecked by vandalism.

    I''m told that ages and ages ago, nobody had any special abilities, there were no wars, all people were equal, and society was a safe place; society was a community, one you wanted to be part of. People lived harmoniously and respected each other regardless of where they all were from or what they looked like.

    I like thinking to myself that those of us who remain can make that happen again, that I can help make that happen, from my own sphere of influence.

    Whatever that is.

    Maybe I just think that because it keeps me sane.

    I made my way quickly through a dark, empty walkway and started up a flight of stairs by the emergency exit.

    I''m a telepath, but not like most- both in the sense that I don''t live in the rich part of the Overwoods (here they call them the Suburbs), and also the sense that it isn''t my only superpower. I grew up with Malcolm, the big man who works in the mines where they get those little Vystir crystals and who also works in the Port, where they carry stuff to and from the boats I''ve never been on.

    "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY," read the sign on the door I was about to walk through. "ALARM WILL RING IF OPENED."

    I pushed the heavy door open and went through. As always, there was no such alarm.

    I''m told it''s lucky we have Vystir in the mines, and that the Union of Stars would have blown us off the map completely and without hesitation if we didn''t have any. Vystir is used by people in the faraway Union of Stars for their experiments, done mostly on people, usually masses of people. It''s part of the reason some of us have superpowers, or combinations of them. Part of the reason there were still dead bodies you couldn''t touch.

    It''s also why I was there where I was. Malcolm had been in an incident where things went wrong in the mines. It gave him what they called Vystir poisoning- not very uncommon anymore, but unpredictable. You never know what it''s going to do to who.

    I started running through the hallway and then burst through a second door.

    "James!" I yelled at the top of my voice without thinking. There was little to soften the shout. No curtains, no carpet. Just tables and chairs, all black, most of which looked like they probably belonged in a museum. The room was lit only by screens and feeble neon lights, which glowed gold and formed a large rectangle on the ceiling. I was now at the Webwork- a colossal room of old computers that some smart people revived for whatever reason. Here they did... well, I didn''t actually know what they did. I didn''t want to know. I was only in the Webwork because that''s where I had to be. There was smoke in the unmoving air, because of people smoking cigarettes and who knows what else. The mix of smells was unfamiliar to me. "James, are you in here?!"

    Half a dozen people stared at me, from their desks, in a state of apparent vexation; another half were making their way towards me. They were men who wore dark clothing like me, but tattered, and where the sleeves ended the tattoos began.

    I wished I had a knife. Or a gun. Or something. But even if I did, I wouldn''t really have hurt someone else; I would''ve just used it to kill myself first if someone else was going to do it and make it too painful.

    --

    Choose your style! You get multiple options as to how you want to read this book.

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    The Neovel Version: tinyurl.com/overwoodsbook

 --II--

    --II--

    I like this pen. It''s nice to write with.

    It''s really long, too.

    --

    THE WEBWORK

    V4

    9:03 PM

    Status: Unavailable

    The man leading the pack looked me over. Between his Vicinity Four accent and whatever he''d been smoking all his life, I could hardly understand him.

    "Ain''t nobody see James with no permission, little boy," he said. "Get lost fo'' ya get hurt, or somebody decides you''re too pretty."

    I didn''t have to be told the meaning of that.

    "I have permission," I said.

    He half coughed, half laughed. "To get a drug? Look at ya. What''re ya, twelve?"

    "Seventeen."

    "And you here fo'' da Smack? You is throwin'' yo life away on da hard shit, already? You too young!"

    What?

    WHAT?

    WHAT DID HE SAY?!!!?!?!

    Excuse me, sir.

    I didn''t EVEN HAVE A LIFE TO THROW AWAY to start with, WHAT AN IDIOT.

    Thank you FOR ASSUMING I DID THOUGH

    Now please, please, PLEASE let me have the antidote so I can cry in peace!!!

    I thought these things to nobody in particular, with many exclamation points. Politely, of course.

    As always.

    Happy place. Happy place.

    Happy happy

    I touched my fingers to my eyebrows. And then I looked at my hands, and there was no bleeding, and there were no ropes.

    I took a deep breath before I spoke again.

    "I came here for the antidote," I said. I tried to say it with a steady voice but failed; I wanted to cry, but this was not the time or the place. "Malc-" I choked. "My dad''s been poisoned."

    You''ve visited here before, I remember telling myself. You were fine. You were fine, you were fine, you were fine.

    Well... I survived, is more like it.

    YOU WERE FINE.

    A moment''s pause. Then the man''s stare somehow felt less menacing; his voice somewhat less gruff. Or maybe I was just starting to not feel things.

    "New experiment?" he said.

    Now, did he REALLY have to go and say that word-

    I felt sick.

    Did he have to say that word NOW???

    Yeah, I know- I actually thought it with THREE question marks.

    Did he have to say that word *NOW???!*

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    And then with asterisks, and an exclamation mark. And then with more capital letters, too:

    Did he have to say THAT WORD *NOW???!*

    No wonder that one publisher guy who was high on crack didn''t like the style I had in my mind. It couldn''t possibly have been the crack he was high on.

    <ol>

    <li>Wanted. To. Vomit.</li>

    </ol>

    "No," I replied, trying to maintain whatever composure I still had. I minimized my verbal communication; my next sentence was one word. "Mines."

    The man coughed- or maybe he was just clearing his throat, I literally couldn''t tell- and gave me what almost felt like a sympathetic look. But the green+black tattoo on his neck of a Beckler & Poch MPV5 Zaiofka machine gun was such a jarring contrast to it- it was like I was talking to the big bad wolf except that the big bad wolf is actually adorable.

    Adorable, and friendly, and fluffy, and cute. And pettable, like a dog. I mean, that''s what the pictures looked like in the library books. Well, to me, that''s how they looked.

    I think.

    I looked down at the man''s shoes, which were much less intimidating even though they were twice as big as mine and looked nine thousand times more expensive.

    That was when I saw the tattoo of an actual wolf above his right ankle, below the tattered end of his pants, and it literally looked like it was going to kill me and then eat me and/or feed me to its friends after removing my one brain cell, because it tastes like jellybean and bad wolves don''t like jellybeans.

    Okay I don''t like wolves anymore

    Sometimes, I think without any punctuation marks. Please sue me for it.

    "Shit," the man said. "I''m sorry. ''Sit bad?"

    "I don''t know," I replied. "I just know he has it."

    And then sometimes, I think random words that probably don''t even actually exist and probably don''t even have any meaning. And I don''t know why- they just... happen. I try to keep my telepathic barrier up most of the time, so telepaths can''t read or hear it. It would be SO EMBARRASSING.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    Like that. WHAT ON EARTH IS AN ORBIPLOSION?

    "Hey," the man said. And what he said next would''ve been scary, except it wasn''t in a scary voice anymore. I think he finally believed I was there with permission from James. "Look at me."

    I forced myself to look up at him. He had green eyes- a super common physical characteristic of those who are U.S. people from V4- and two scars on his face that were still in the process of healing.

    Funny, I had two scars on my face that were still in the process of healing, too.

    "Wha''dya have for us?" he said.

    I finally had a steady answer, one that I gave to him in a voice as loud as his.

    "Files. The ones James wanted? I have them."

    I heard people mumble from behind their desks. There was rumbling all around me.

    This place is creepy. 8 out of 10 of these people are literally currently on drugs. I want to go home and do some tumbling, maybe get my triple full twist combined with something super duper cool again! And then I''ll call it THE MUSHROOM. That''s a cool name. Maybe Malcolm has made my favorite French toast. OH, I LOVE FRENCH TOAST SO MUCH! MMM, SO YUMMY.

    I licked my lips.

    "You?" the man said. "The one who''s getting us the info is you?"

    "I don''t even know what I''m getting you," I said. "But I have it. All I want is the antidote."

    --

    James had long straight hair, some sort of shade between red and orange. His glasses reflected the light from all the screens in his office as he spoke.

    "...should last you about three weeks, maybe four." He unplugged the flash drive from a device I''d never seen before. "Come talk to me before then to get more."

    "Will I have to do something similar?"

    There was a touch of amusement on his face, a smile in his eyes, which were the same shade of light green as the ice cream Caleb bought for me and Kaylee, the day we graduated from primary school. It feels like it was just yesterday.

    Kaylee and I were in the same classes, and we also were in Experiment Nightingale- the only two survivors. It was aimed towards telepaths, intended to hone their abilities further, perhaps cause reactions that gave us more powers, make us more useful. It''s unclear if that experiment is why Kaylee can make plants grow from nothing, why I can touch people and take pain from them and leap unbelievably high and far. I wasn''t a good enough gymnast to compete anywhere- because I was disqualified before I could get on an apparatus.

    James arranged the vials in a box before me on one of his tables.

    "Something similar or even better," he said.

    I cleared my throat. Between memories of Experiment Nightingale and my thoughts of Malcolm it was hard to stay in the present moment. "I''m sorry," I replied. "What exactly do you mean by ''better?''"

    Before Malcolm came along I was prostituted as a child. It happens when you''re poor and you come from one of the worst parts of the Overwoods.

    "I mean that the experiment was a success!" he said, tapping the US seal on the badge he always wore on a chain around his neck. I had never seen James so happy before. "You..." he walked over and put an arm around me. "Are a success! The Union of Stars'' president will be so happy, absolutely ecstatic!"

    I wrapped my arms around the box, the vials of antidote that could very well save Malcolm''s life. "Can I go home now?"

    "Yes!" he said. "Come see me in three weeks."

    I made my way towards the door in a hurry. "Okay," I said.

    "Oh, Midnight, one more thing-" he said. He was fiddling with papers and envelopes in one of his desk drawers. "This is for you."

    He picked up some type of small object, and threw it in a long arc across the room and at me. I caught it with the top of the box.

    For a moment I was so worried it had maybe broken a vial or two, but it was surprisingly very lightweight.

    It was a badge, with a seal. Just like the one James was wearing. And it landed face up.

    I made out the words pressed into the silver material:

    "CHRISTOPHER MIDNIGHT. UNION OF STARS. AGENT LEVEL I."

    I looked back at him, confused, and so aggravated that yet another person was wasting my time on that day.

    "James," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. "This is for someone else. My name is Danny."

    He looked at me, and I had trouble reading his exact expression. It was like he thought what I said was hysterical. Like he was about to throw a party because he won the lottery or something. "Not anymore."

 --III--

    --III--

    "Okay, so have you found the guy?"

    "Not yet." Belinda Klein was working investigations on the 5th floor of the Webwork, where I spent my working hours if I wasn''t in the US, or wasn''t with Malcolm or Kaylee.

    Malcolm didn''t need to work anymore now that I had money coming in, but he insisted, and I wasn''t going to take that away from him. Kaylee didn''t need to work, of course- her dads had the agency, which, as it turns out, was the Union of Stars'' Overwoods branch.

    It took Kaylee''s family and James about a year to determine if I was, and I quote, "what the US needs" to help carry out certain operations. They all knew I was never going to participate in any experiments or conducting them, so they assigned me to help work criminal investigations. At least for now.

    I wasn''t even very useful in my opinion. They just needed me for random fancy things where a person with no superpowers might have trouble. Areas where someone needed to get in somewhere quick, and get out quick; situations where a person physically had to obtain evidence or information fast and without jeopardizing the entire investigation. Fun happy stuff.

    I felt like a charity case. Maybe I did have superpowers, but personally I felt as though I was no one special. Just someone lucky enough that people wanted to help me. These other people, working in the US, were either rich, born in the US, had a ton of master''s degrees, or all three.

    I was none of the above, and standing there thinking about it all, I could feel my anxiety and PTSD and insecurities mixing all together at once. I wonder what these people saw in me.

    "You know where the suspect was; you know both the hotel and the room he was in, but still don''t have the suspect''s name?" I asked Belinda. Her hair was the same dark black as mine, but dyed pink. I didn''t even know if that was allowed in the agency. You could see the roots growing in; some of them were gray and not black. "It''s been a week since the murder."

    "These answers don''t come in a day, or a week, or sometimes even a month, agent Midnight."

    That''s what they see in me, I suppose. Christopher Midnight, the name they gave to the boy who had been close to death on more than a few occasions, the boy who survived pain, hunger, and violence; the one who survived Experiment Nightingale.

    I mean, Kaylee survived Experiment Nightingale, too. But her skills were very different from mine.

    "Do I go home?" I said.

    It had been almost year since I did that first favor for James, and I was happy with the name they gave me, mostly because I never even knew what my real name really was... or if I even had one. Danny was just what I called myself. To me, it was nice, to feel that I belonged somewhere, belonged to people, who knew me and trusted me and had a name for me, people who knew where I was needed.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    I am enough. Maybe I don''t feel it right now, believe it right now. But one day I will.

    "Paperwork," Belinda said. She means the ones I''m qualified to work even without earthshattering master''s degrees. Apparently I can write. Apparently my grammar is sort of okay.

    "And then?"

    "Dip the gloves in the sterilizers. Then you can go."

    "Okay," I said. I used to always feel I didn''t know who I was, or what I was. I''m lucky Malcolm mitigated that early. Kaylee came along, and her family, and James and the agency. I wasn''t lost anymore, or at least I wasn''t as lost as I used to be. I looked back at Belinda, before sitting down. "Belle."

    "Yes?"

    "You said our suspect had a nickname?"

    "It''s only a hunch, a theory."

    "An assumption, yes. What was the nickname?"

    "The Manila Maniac."

    I physically cringed. "Really?"

    "Yes." Belinda looked at me and smiled. "Pathetic name, isn''t it?"

    "Where is it from?"

    "The location of this murder and other unsolved murders are all in an area called the Lowdown; thousands of years ago it was known as Manila."

    "I know." I paused. Then I sat down, and ran my fingers along the sheet of paper in front of me. "I used to live there." I had to take a moment to think, to remember things I can''t erase or push aside. To accept them, and carry on best I could. Essentially I was frozen in the past for just a moment; this was something Belinda Klein was now accustomed to, having worked on the same team. She could tell from my eyes. I cleared my throat. "What makes us assume this was the Manila Maniac?"

    "Victim was female, about fourteen years old-"

    "Decapitated?"

    "Yes, Midnight, decapitated." She gave me a look. "And as I''m sure you''ve heard, this isn''t the first dead body of a very young person found in that area, with its head cut off."

    "Weren''t there three others?"

    "Sixteen others. Thirteen just weren''t as popular, weren''t made as public."

    "And they''re not all women."

    "Correct. In fact, eleven of the seventeen were male."

    "Signs of abuse?"

    "Rape."

    I put my hands together in front of me. Hadn''t I dealt with people like this before? Before I understood anything? Was I fortunate to have walked out of the situation I was in with two working legs and a beating heart?

    "The address," I said. "Give me the address."

    Belinda tied her pink hair into a knot.

    "Belle, the address, please."

    "You don''t want to do this." Her attention was on her computer screen. "And you''re eighteen."

    "What does my age have to do with this?"

    "Chris," she said. "You''re young. You''re traumatized. And it''s only been several years since you left a bad situation."

    "Don''t talk to me like that."

    She took a ballpoint pen and a sticky note, scribbled on it, and slammed it onto my desk with her right hand. "All right, your choice," she said. Unfinished papers flew onto the floor. The tattooed snakes on her forearm stared at me with red eyes. Ladders and snakes, roses and thorns. All in color.

    She stalked back to her computer, and I could''ve sworn the entire planet could hear her keyboard when she started typing on it again.

    I took the sticky note.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    There was an edge to her voice now. "Tell James I told you not to, when you go crying to him."

    "I''ll do that," I said. "Thanks, Belinda."

 --IV--

    --IV--

    "Midnight!"

    Kaylee was in a dress, a beautiful thing, it was light pink and studded with what looked like thousands of tiny little diamonds to me. It came straight from the US, and cost $500.99. I know because I''m the one who bought it for her.

    "Kaylee," I said, grinning. I didn''t hesitate to embrace her. She and her family had done so much for us. Next to Malcolm, she was the best friend I had in the entire world.

    I remembered Experiment Nightingale. We were tied to chairs... all of us. None of us was older than twelve. The being tied to a chair wasn''t necessary for me; even then, I knew there was nothing in my power that I could do to stop the experiments. I didn''t know if I was going to live or die that day, I didn''t know if I cared. I was being prostituted for money and food then and I didn''t know if I cared to keep going. That in itself makes you feel messed up, makes you feel afraid of everything. Kaylee was crying. Sobbing and shouting about how her parents were two of the top men working somewhere with some kind of authority. But it wasn''t enough. Kaylee and I were the only ones from the experiment still alive after three months.

    Kaylee looked at me. Her eyes were brown, like mine, like her dad''s. They were filled with tears. "Thank you so much for the dress," she said.

    "You''re welcome," I said. I had to try hard not to cry; she was always kind, and beautiful, without trying to be. She was one of those people you always wanted to be around. And she always told me I was one of those people, too, but I didn''t know if I agreed. "Thank you for saving my life. And Malcolm''s."

    "You saved your own life. I just had to talk to people."

    Caleb was standing in the doorway. I saw him by the golden light of their living room, which was spilling out onto the porch on that warm Friday evening.

    Kaylee looked at him. "Jealous, Caleb?" she said.

    I laughed, harder than I had ever laughed before. It was ridiculous. But not without merit.

    "Shut up," said Caleb.

    "Yeah, I know you are!" Kaylee replied. I know she found it funny; it was all that mattered to me.

    --

    --

    She started walking towards the house. I waved hello to Aurelio, one of the men employed to guard the perimeter. He waved back; he always greeted me with a smile.

    I loved the Davenport residence. It was beautiful, made from glass and marble and maple and mahogany and oak and stone and all sorts of things I had no name for. From where I stood I looked up at the chimney, which jutted out from the glass roof. I was transfixed; chimneys captivated me. I''d only ever seen five of them, four of them when I was assigned work in mainland US. Every curtain that I could see above the ground floor was dark red. Red was my favorite color. I smiled.

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    The four-story masterpiece was one of few places in the Overwoods where I knew I was safe. Just like Malcolm''s house in the Port, it was home to me. And when you combine that with the fact that I didn''t have one at all until I was fifteen, it wasn''t just amazing; it was a sanctuary.

    A sanctuary with, in my opinion, the kindest and nicest four people, ever. Though occasionally Henry got too drunk and started arguing with anyone who would listen about how telepaths only should be allowed to hold positions in government.

    I didn''t know about that. And I only ever read minds to preserve my life or someone else''s.

    I wondered what mind reading politicians did. I wondered what politicians did at all. I wondered what they talked about, what they ate for dinner.

    They''re people, like us, aren''t they?

    Kaylee giggled as I followed her up the steps; she spoke to me in a hushed tone.

    "You know, Chris, he really loves your smile."

    "Must be the dimple," I replied. "My teeth are fucked."

    "What? No, they''re not."

    "You don''t see them like I do."

    "Yeah, I''m not sure anybody does." She shot a glance at me as we walked up. "Especially not Caleb."

    We were outside the door now; Caleb was standing directly in front of me, his eyes on mine. They were some sort of color between gray and blue. They reminded me of the ice-covered sidewalk I once slipped on.

    He was a foot taller than me at minimum- which made sense, because I was five foot three, at most. I had to look up whenever he spoke to me.

    "Howdy," he said. He had a thick and heavy US accent, of course, but it was slightly different from the one that Henry and Kaylee shared. It fascinated me. He looked like Scott; they were both tall, dirty blond, blue-eyed.

    "Hi," I said.

    "We heard you apprehended someone," said Caleb. "Good work."

    "I... didn''t apprehend anyone," I said. "I just kept someone from getting hurt."

    He means from two weeks ago. A man was yelling in whatever language it was and shooting people with some sort of makeshift revolver. It''s not like I was gonna stare and do nothing. Fortunately no one was killed; I only needed to do one hop. That''s what I called it. I just jumped on him.

    "I''m still proud of you," said Caleb. "You saved lives. It''s what you do."

    "You''re giving me too much credit."

    "Am not."

    "I''ll go leave you two alone!" squealed Kaylee, quirking her eyebrows at us and stepping inside.

    Caleb and I stared at the doorway. For what felt like five minutes we listened to Kaylee still laughing inside.

    "How''s James?" said Caleb. "Anything new with the Webwork?"

    "James is..." I didn''t know how to put it. "James is as you would expect him to be, I guess." I loved James. I didn''t want to say anything bad about the man. Bad karma.

    "Of course," said Caleb. "On stimulants."

    "I don''t know. Probably." I remembered something else. "Somebody told me Chaquille overdosed."

    "Interesting." Caleb grinned. "He''s not there to tell you that you''re a little twelve-year-old boy looking for drugs anymore?"

    "Not recently," I said. "I haven''t seen him for a month."

    "And you still work with Meadows," said Caleb.

    "Meadows," I said. "And Klein."

    "Belinda?" said Caleb. "She''s a bitch."

    We heard some shuffling upstairs, and then Kaylee was back. Well, sort of. We saw only her head, peeking out of a second-story window.

    Out of thin air, she created some sort of little handful of leaves. She placed it on the edge of the windowsill.

    I stared at it. Kaylee looked at me, expectantly.

    "I don''t get it," I said.

    "It''s mistletoe," said Caleb.

    "What''s that?" I said. "What does it do?"

    "Never mind," said Caleb.

    Kaylee waved her arms from upstairs.

    "Chris, make sure you DON''T read his mind!" yelled Kaylee. "Trust me, it''ll be SO uncomfortable!"

    I was silent. I didn''t know if I was blushing red, or green. Caleb was blushing red for sure; I could see it, and he was glaring. I didn''t hear him sound angry too many times, but this was one of them. "I am going to make sure he never buys you anything!" he yelled back. "Anything, ever again!"

    Kaylee stuck her tongue out, shut the window, and disappeared from view.

 --V--

    --V--

    I stared at the window.

    Caleb stopped glaring, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them. His gaze rested on my face.

    "How-" he said muttering, then shifted to a deep and irritated voice. "How on earth is that girl your best friend, Chris?"

    "Nightingale," I said. I succeeded at saying the word. And then I couldn''t look Caleb in the eye anymore.

    "Hey," said Caleb.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "I mean, I know it could''ve been worse- I mean, we lived. Kaylee and me. Everybody else..." I trailed off.

    "Chris," said Caleb.

    "...they''re dead. They died." I felt the need to prove I could say it; I could speak the words without totally jumping away in one piece of air while doing a some form of somersault with a full twist and then crying for 24 hours wherever I landed. Perfect score, yay. "And they didn''t die all at once, either," I said.

    "Do you dream about it?" said Caleb.

    "What?" I said.

    "Do you dream about it," he repeated. "She does."

    I stared at my shoes. There was something in my eyes again.

    I wanted to tell Caleb what I dreamed about when I do sleep: reruns of past traumas. Including, but not limited to, Experiment Nightingale.

    I also wanted to tell Caleb that sometimes when I woke up from them, I would think of him.

    I thought of Caleb, and it soothed my mind. It guided me back to the present. I thought of how he was basically the reason I had a job. How thankful I was that Kaylee had a brother like him, helping to keep her protected.

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    How Caleb and I always visited the Port together, at midnight.

    I wanted to say these things; I wanted to express my deepest gratitude, express to him how much he meant to me.

    Sadly, I didn''t know how to do any of these things.

    "I dream about it when I''m awake, yes," I said. "I don''t sleep."

    "Come on," said Caleb.

    "I sleep a little," I said.

    He smiled, and locked eyes with me.

    "You know," he said. "I can change that."

    "Thanks for the jacket, do you want it back?" I said, both subconsciously and automatically trying to look for a way out of the new subject at hand, as well as searching his eyes, in an attempt to read him, read where his heart was when he said those words. I was already removing the brown cotton jacket. It was always really easy to take off, too, because it was so huge on me.

    He put his hand firmly on my arm, stopping me.

    "It''s yours," Caleb said, slowly. There was a slightly pleading tone in his voice when he said it. It melted some of my defenses. I still had thousands. "Keep it," he said. "Please."

    The wind was warm; things weren''t all frozen over, the way they usually were on most late Marches. Weather in the Overwoods: your number one source of unpredictability.

    "Okay," I said. "I''ll keep it."

    "Thank you," said Caleb.

    "You''re welcome," I said.

    We stood there, on the porch, silent for a while.

    I rolled my eyes up to the shade above us. I sniffed. I cleared my throat, and said nothing.

    He took my hand, and locked his fingers between mine. I think he did this whenever he felt he needed to drag me back into the present, or something. "You''re stronger than you think you are," he said softly. "And you''re not alone anymore."

    Either he read my mind or my flashback moments were now obvious to him.

    I still said nothing. I didn''t know what to say. I stayed frozen for a moment longer, having to deal with Experiment Nightingale and other memories as well as my amazingly phenomenal awkwardness.

    The truth is I didn''t want to push anyone away or reject affection; I didn''t want to act like I didn''t need anything, or like I was this extremely independent and invulnerable and invincible teenager.

    Because I wasn''t.

    Yet unfortunately I had been in maybe a few too many unpleasant situations. I felt like for me certain emotions were difficult, perhaps even dangerous. Malcolm and Kaylee had come close, Caleb on several occasions.

    Caleb smiled. He didn''t have any dimples, like me. What he did have was funny yellow stubble. I remember touching it once, in a moment when I just really wanted to. I hope he never asks me about it.

    He pulled me inside the living room with him.

    "You''re still wearing my jacket," he said. "Even on a warm day."

    I saw Scott waving hello to me from the kitchen. I smiled and waved back. He was affectionate and friendly and kind. It was always nice to see him.

    "I like jackets," I said.

 --VI--

    --VI--

    I had no idea what I was eating but it was AMAZING.

    "How goes the job, son?" said Henry, who was across from me at the Davenport''s dining room table.

    It was like a cheeseburger. It was like, a cheeseburger, only more cheeseburger.

    I smiled. I liked food. Food made me happy.

    I looked at Caleb, who was seated beside his father. He didn''t answer the question.

    I spoke with my mouth full because I didn''t really care around these people, and because OMG WOW CHEESEBURGER YAY. OH CHEESEBURGER.

    "Caweb!" I said. "Enry athked you equeffion."

    Henry looked at me.

    "No," said Henry. "I asked you."

    "Oh." I quickly swallowed the mouthful of amazing cheeseburger. I wanted it in my mouth for longer, but, oh well. There was more, anyway.

    "Things going well?" said Henry.

    "They are, and I love it," I said while getting more lettuce from a plate. "I love being useful." I shrugged, and tried not to sound overly excited talking about it. "I love being somewhere, helping where I know I can. And James? He isn''t horrible to work with at all, despite all that I''ve been told. He''s a nice guy."

    Henry''s expression was neutral.

    "That''s good," said Henry.

    "What''s this about, dear?" said Scott.

    I remembered my conversation with Belinda. Henry''s eyes bore into mine.

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    Suddenly I was scared and nervous. I had the sense that maybe Henry was reading my mind; I didn''t try to confirm it.

    "Dad, don''t do this," said Caleb.

    Kaylee scratched her fork on her plate. She was making baby corn plants around it.

    "You''re hunting someone dangerous, someone who is a murderer," said Henry. He took a big swig from his drink. "And also a rapist."

    Kaylee left the table. I subconsciously dropped my fork and started flailing trying to catch it. That was a mistake, because I couldn''t do it right and it ended up flying into the punch bowl and making the punch splash out of it, onto the potato salad. I ruined their perfectly good potato salad.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "What..." I trailed off. "What makes you say this?"

    Henry was finishing a piece of steak. He took a sip of whatever probably-alcoholic-beverage he''d been drinking for the past twenty minutes.

    "Belinda Klein messaged," he said.

    "What did she say?" I asked.

    "She said you''re going after a very dangerous suspect," Henry said.

    "We don''t even have a suspect," I said. "And even if we did, the suspect wouldn''t be any more or less dangerous than others I''ve dealt with in the past. I''m still here, aren''t I?"

    Caleb and I locked eyes for a moment, then I looked away.

    Henry took another swig before speaking. He tapped his finger on the bottle. "She also said you demanded to get an address."

    "I asked," I said.

    "Do you realize you''re a possible target?" said Henry.

    That''s all it took. I didn''t want to be at that table anymore. I''m not helpless, is what I wanted to say. I took a breath, and then responded.

    "We don''t know who it is," I said. "Belinda doesn''t have anything; there''s no actual suspect. Not yet, at least."

    Caleb spoke, only to me, telepathically. "You''re after a ''who'' again," he said. "Not a ''what.''"

    Henry was busy drinking his whatever it was.

    Caleb spoke to me again. "Hey," he said. "Am I right?" He sounded troubled, even through telepathy. "Chris, you''re not in danger, are you?"

    I looked around, from Kaylee''s empty seat to Scott to Caleb. No one was enjoying the topic. Or the food.

    A shame because the food was mind-blowing.

    I turned my attention back to Henry.

    "It''s Kaylee''s birthday celebration," I said softly. "Do we really need to talk about this, here?"

    "Yes," said Henry. He took another sip. "We do."

    "Dad," said Caleb.

    "It''s okay!" said Kaylee. She was behind me with two small bowls of chocolate ice cream. She placed one on the table in front of me. "You can talk about it here! And remember it''s not just my birthday celebration- it''s Chris''s birthday celebration, too!"

    "Please excuse me," I said. I got up from the table. "Caleb can have my ice cream. Thanks, Kaylee."

    I was weak, feeble; I fell apart everywhere. But this time I could at least keep it from happening in front of these nice people.

    "I can pay for the potato salad," I said.

 --VII--

    --VII--

    There were old discarded bookshelves to my left. To my right, there were piles of armchairs, a blackboard on the ground beside them, and some shrubs with pretty light purple flowers.

    A small red squirrel was scurrying about. It stopped and stared at me.

    I stared back at it.

    "Hi," I said.

    The cute little thing twitched its nose, and then ran away. My eyes followed it until it disappeared from view.

    I could let the water from my eyes fall here.

    I didn''t cry in front of them. Thank God.

    I positioned my feet against the broken wall of the school. I wondered if my family studied here; I wondered if I had one.

    Perhaps I didn''t have one; perhaps I was the byproduct of an experiment. There were so many. One experiment started on a November and concluded on a February.

    They called it Nightingale.

    "Chris!" a voice yelled, not far behind me. The voice was Caleb''s.

    I was torn between just going or letting him catch up.

    It was routine for me; whenever I visited the Davenports this was my favorite hopoff position, as I called it. One controlled maneuver off of this perfectly diagonally placed broken thing, and I landed in the most beautiful part of the Port, every time.

    I let him catch up.

    Caleb was out of breath. He had to hunch over, his hands on his knees.

    Suddenly all I wanted to do was hug him. I wanted a human embrace.

    "I can''t be near you right now," I said.

    "What?" he said. "Why?"

    "I just can''t."

    "I''m sorry about Dad, you know how he can be someti-"

    "You ran here," I said, interrupting. "There must be something important; say it now, and I''ll go."

    "I just wanted to say you don''t have to pay for the potato salad."

    "Wonderful," I said. "Goodbye."

    Then he grabbed my hand- typically I would''ve freaked out and ran at such sudden physical contact. But with Caleb, it was different sometimes.

    It took me a few seconds, as it always did. And then, Caleb wasn''t out of breath and sweating anymore; I was. I was out of breath and sweating and my legs burned.

    The little red squirrel came back, dropped an acorn in front of me, and then scurried away.

    There was something else I was feeling, too, it was some kind of pain, not so much a physical pain, but maybe more so a vague hollow ache somewhere over my chest, where my heart was. I couldn''t explain it.

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    "Danny," said Caleb. He called me that, sometimes. Either I liked it or I didn''t care. "You really don''t have to do that for me, you know."

    "I''m only doing it because I love your eyes and I think they''re a really pretty color," I said.

    "No." He pulled me closer to him. "You''re doing it because you love me."

    I smiled.

    "Okay," I said. "You win."

    I closed my eyes; it wasn''t easy staying in that moment, but I did, and I did it for as long as humanly possible.

    "Danny," he said. "You''re not reading my mind, are you?"

    "No," I said. "Of course not."

    "Okay," he said. "All right. What are you thinking?"

    "I''m thinking love is so overrated," I said.

    "I''m thinking that''s just you putting walls up," said Caleb.

    "Speaking of walls, there''s a wall I need to go and literally hop from." The burning in my legs was starting to ebb, but the strange feeling, the unexplained one over my chest, was just as profound and confusing to me now as it was earlier. "Caleb, there''s some kind of a feeling, somewhere in your chest almost? What is it?"

    His eyes searched mine. He said nothing.

    "Are you gonna tell me?" I said.

    I looked at the sky; it was dark and empty, save for some tiny silver-blue specks. I wondered if the Union of Stars took their name from the big bright burning things. They definitely used lots of hydrogen and helium, and burned things.

    ...I guessed it made sense.

    And I guessed Caleb wasn''t going to answer. "The stars are the color of your eyes," I said.

    "It''s how I feel when I can''t get close to you," he said.

    "Wait. What?" I almost did an actual facepalm. "You are very close to me."

    "Not close enough."

    My heart skipped a beat. "Wait," I said. "Do you always feel this way?"

    I felt guilt. Awful, horrible guilt. A person was in pain, and I, in some form, was the cause for it.

    "A lot of the time," he said.

    His voice echoed in my mind. Either that or he was telepathically telling me again; I didn''t know which.

    Not close enough.

    I was nervous when I spoke.

    "What''s closer?" I said. "Can I make it better?"

    In answer, he took my face in both his hands and kissed me.

    I was revolted. Or should I say- the broken parts of me, were revolted. The rest of me wanted it; I wanted it so much.

    It was a long time before he pulled back.

    "There," he said, softly. "You made it better."

    I had nothing to say. At least, nothing I could think of. I desperately tried to think of something. Anything.

    "Did I ever tell you how much I love the stubble on your face?" I said.

    He laughed. It was a really weird, really loud, really accented laugh. I loved it.

    "Yes," he said. "On at least one occasion. It''s nice to hear it again."

    My brain had completely shut down.

    If I had one.

    "Cool," I said. I did a thumbs-up gesture with both my hands, which were still shaking. "All right, I''ma go now."

    Just then my phone buzzed.

    I instantly was pissed off- I HATED text messages, absolutely despised them. The only reason I even had a phone was because I had a thing, called a job. Apart from Kaylee, Caleb, James, Scott, and Connor Meadows, no one else had my phone number, at least not that I knew of. Even Belinda didn''t have it. Maybe it was some kind of urgent e-mail?

    "Really?" I whispered. "Now? Tonight?" I was disgruntled, and I wasn''t trying to conceal it. "I swear, if this is Klein-"

    "It isn''t Klein," said Caleb.

    I looked at him. One of Caleb''s abilities was that he could manipulate almost any technology, communicate with it from afar. Technopathy.

    "What do you mean?"

    "Chris, I think you''re in danger."

    I shook my head. I fumbled for the cell phone. "I''ve been in danger before. I live in the Overwoods. It''s not new."

    I unlocked the phone. There was one new message on it.

    It was from an unusual number, a string of digits that didn''t seem to follow any format.

    I tapped to open it.

    Caleb stood next to me, so we both could see the message.

    "MISSED YOU

    CAN''T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN

    - M M"

    "Wow," I said. "So original."

    Caleb didn''t look amused when he took the keys from his pocket. In fact, he looked obdurate. Frigid.

    Expressionless.

    Even I was concerned then.

    "You''re staying with me tonight," said Caleb.

    I felt something creep up on me. Fear. A certain kind of it. But I was no stranger to it, either.

    "What do you mean?" I said. "Where?"

    "Dad''s office," said Caleb. "Scott''s. It''s more secure than the house."

 --VIII--

    --VIII--

    Nightingale

    Day/Night #14 or #15 (Exact day/night not yet confirmed)

    Subprocedure Unknown

    There were no words for how cold, how empty, how completely removed from life you felt, when things like this happened.

    She was behind a screen to my left. It was tinted, and thinner than paper, but could not be penetrated. Marie, I thought her name was.

    I heard a voice: the same voice everyone else there was also hearing. It was a man''s voice.

    It sounded like the voice of evil itself. It was disembodied; it was fluctuating in the air all around us.

    "Those of you who were injected will need to obtain your key," said the man. "The key is the same color as your ID. It will also have the same number."

    We all had some kind of device, completely stuck to our left hands. I looked down at it.

    Pure white.

    But there was no number on it...

    Marie looked at me. She had a black version of the same contraption; it was marked in red with the number 74.

    "What will happen, if we don''t find the right key?" she said. "What if we don''t find a key at all?"

    I looked around for Kaylee. There were walls around us, but I knew not to be fooled; there were more. Only invisible.

    The voice spoke again.

    "The key will allow you to access the platform above you. That is where you need to go," said the voice. "Thank you for participating."

    Participating?

    I woke up here. I didn''t even know if I was injected on that day; did he mean previous injections in the experiment?

    Weren''t we all injected?

    A hundred times?

    I let go of trying to find Kaylee, for the moment. Either I couldn''t see her or she wasn''t nearby. I didn''t think that she was dead- Kaylee was too strong; too smart.

    I looked up. Dark glass walls and a ceiling. What platform?

    "How much time do you think we have?" Marie said.

    "I don''t know," I replied. "Find your key." I wiped tears off my face; I saw them but couldn''t feel them. I didn''t know what felt worse to me at that moment: not knowing where I was, being trapped, the pain in my chest, the pain in my wrists, or the pounding in my head. There was a bruise on my left arm and I had no idea where it came from.

    I looked at Marie. For a moment, I wondered if the fear in her eyes was the same thing she saw, on my face. And then I dismissed the thought.

    I couldn''t feel fear; I had none left at that moment. It had all been used up in the weeks before.

    "Find your key," I told her, in my best attempt at an encouraging voice. "You can do this, Marie."

    "You remember my name," she said.

    "Second grade," I said. "Science experiment."

    "You blew up the frog," she said with a laugh.

    It wasn''t me- the boy who blew up the frog was a non-telepath who could manipulate fire. Pyrokinetic, like Malcolm.

    I let her laugh without interrupting; I was happy she had something to smile about.

    When I saw Marie again, I couldn''t make her smile anymore, because she was a dead body.

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    --

    "Midnight, the door! GET THE DOOR, NOW!"

    Belinda''s lip was bleeding profusely- she probably was going to need stitches. Her dyed pink hair was disheveled in its knot. Her gun was pointed towards the chandelier at the top of the large and beautifully decorated room, a room which extended from the lobby to the second and third floors of the hotel. Everything expensive imaginable was in it.

    "Connor and I can take care of the windows. Hurry, or this all was for nothing!" Belinda yelled.

    "Belle," I said. "There''s, like, a million doors. Could you please be a little more specific?"

    James answered me.

    "Lobby emergency exit," he said, in a voice so different from his usual enthusiastic chatter. It was even and steady. It was loud, yet soft at the same time. Firm but gentle.

    A shower of sparks came down from the ceiling.

    I admired this most about James; in an extremely heated panic situation, he was calm. He said I was like that, too.

    As long as the PTSD wasn''t kicking in at the command of some random trigger, of course.

    He was standing beside Belinda Klein, on the staircase. He was surveying the room before us. Concentrating.

    I grunted as I pushed myself up off the ground. There was a colossal mess of dark, almost black blood on Caleb''s jacket- a shard of glass had buried itself into the left side of my neck. There was another one, even longer, in my rib cage. I didn''t pull out either one.

    Belinda pulled the trigger.

    I flinched, and made some kind of a sound; I HATED gunshots.

    "Midnight, now, go," said James.

    "Understood," I replied.

    I took a breath, stood straight, and leaped off the third floor railing and onto the ground floor. The chandelier soon followed; James used it to smash the glass doors of the main entrance, destroying it. I watched debris and wreckage fall from the ceiling in front of me. Telekinesis, he called it.

    I bounded towards the emergency exit, and almost immediately realized I didn''t need to secure it- it was on fire. In fact, the entire hallway toward it was on fire. Nobody was going to be using this path as an exit any time soon.

    Whoever we were after was trapped.

    I ran back toward the center of the lobby. A man was standing there, looking the other way. I approached him, coughing and wincing.

    "Hey," I said.

    He turned towards me.

    "Hi, do you need any help?" I asked.

    Fortunately, he wasn''t injured, not that I could tell. Not as badly as I was at least.

    And then, something shifted. It happened slowly. The atmosphere in that room- the smoke, heat, the dust from the ceiling and the burning wreckage all around us- turned cold, like there was no fire; like I couldn''t feel the torridness. The entire hotel lobby started going dark, beginning with the floor, and moving up toward the ceiling. Our surroundings were engulfed in flames that seemed to turn, creepingly, into motionless black holes. Everything around us was turning into blackness. Clearly, something was going very wrong- I looked at the man, trying to make sense of whatever was happening, when I recognized him. Either it really did take me a while to put it together, or my brain didn''t process it correctly at once when he turned around. Standing in front of me was the man who had me prostituted.

    For years.

    I was a child.

    I didn''t know his real name, ever.

    I didn''t know my real name, ever.

    He looked at me with dark eyes, soulless eyes, and spoke to me.

    "Well," he said. "Hello there."

    I sometimes wondered if he was my dad. And then I''d rule it out, because we had no similarities, physically or otherwise.

    "You know, you''re funny," I said. "You said we-" I tried to think, but then, thinking was impossible. "You said you only did what you did, so we could live."

    "We did live."

    "No," I said. "You lived."

    I stared him straight in the eye, the same way I did the last time I had to do special favors for him. My thoughts were a house on fire. I was a knife in a gunfight.

    "I died," I said. "I died every day."

    I felt like I was choking; I felt like my body physically could not breathe the air near this man.

    If he was a man at all.

    "The money you were getting was enough. Enough, already. And you used it," I said, still unable to comprehend it, even at eighteen. "You used it to make more victims, and even more victims."

    "Bigger business," he said. "You should understand it now. You''re older. More gold."

    "I don''t understand it."

    "Well," he said, with a voice that belonged to a demon, a demon that belonged, for all eternity, in hell. "Go cry about it, then."

    "Don''t worry, I will," I said. "I do it every day. I do it in my sleep."

    I closed my eyes.

    "But before I do that again..." I said. I was stronger and older, and trained; I imagined myself on top of him, slamming my elbow into his throat, and into his temple, my fingers in both his eye sockets, and taking the knife from my pocket- to go directly for both his carotid arteries: the ones that brought oxygenated blood from his nonexistent heart to his immoral, corrupt, completely twisted, completely defunct, and completely depraved brain.

    I took the knife from my pocket.

    And then I dropped the knife on the ground.

    And then I walked away.

    Because we aren''t like him. His victims aren''t like him.

    I flicked off the switch for the simulation.

    The underground floors of the Webwork were designed for US agent training. I was in B14.

    I sat alone, on the floor of the training room.

    Extra training on Saturdays was my new form of acceptable self-harm. It definitely worked; it certainly took my mind away from memories of Experiment Nightingale.

    The darkness turned back into flames, and turned from flames back into the grand and beautiful lobby of the hotel, and from the lobby back into the dim, vast, empty training room.

    The real lights flickered back on.

    I was afraid of this man, his size and power.

    But weak people pull other people down to make themselves feel stronger.

    So I was never afraid of the tears.

    I was never afraid to show that I do have weaknesses- because with weakness comes strength.

    And it makes us human.

 --IX--

    --IX--

    I guess maybe I didn''t know how to stay near someone I loved.

    And no matter how much you may love someone, or how much someone may love you... you can''t be with them all the time.

    I slowed my run when I arrived at the Lowdown.

    It was just as bad as I remembered it- drugs everywhere and prostitution and pollution. A fourteen-year-old was murdered. Just four years ago, that fourteen-year-old very well could have been me.

    I checked the sticky note Belinda gave me.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    Dirtwater Avenue.

    The part Dirtwater made sense, but it wasn''t even an avenue. I hugged a sidewalk, looked down with my hands folded, and among other things, prayed that Caleb would forgive me. I don''t stay put when I can help. I don''t stay put when there is a murderer and rapist on the loose. I don''t care for a name but I do care for a difference. I had been broken and damaged and hurt and completely destroyed; I had both the power, as well as the opportunity, to keep it from happening to others. So I left Caleb a note, texted Scott, and walked.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "Working on a Sunday?" Connor said.

    His voice was groggy and maybe a little bit slurred. Possibly exhaustion, possibly alcohol.

    Reception in the Lowdown was awful; I had to listen like a bat, and really press the phone to my ear. I hopped over a broken manhole and then a pile of vomit and then another pile of vomit and then a pile of both vomit and dismembered rats.

    "It''s a Saturday," I said.

    "Right."

    "Sorry, Connor," I said. "Just forward to me whatever Belinda had on our guy."

    She had to have something; she wouldn''t have acted the way she did otherwise. I just needed to get it.

    "I thought you chose not to read minds," said Connor. "You''re that telepath. Read minds only if it''s survival or death. How do you know she''s got anything?"

    "I read her minus the mind reading," I replied.

    I heard him yawn, and the squeaking of a bed.

    "People are dead, Connor," I said.

    Behind me, some skinny brown-skinned men sniffing chemicals started yelling, loudly and unintelligibly. I didn''t glance back more than once because that only would have made things worse.

    "Maybe to some it''s just a statistic," I said. What I loved about Connor Meadows was that he was steady. What I didn''t necessarily always love was that apparently, his years looking at dead bodies had robbed him of human emotions. "It''s a little different to me." I casually sped up my walking pace. "If you don''t do it, I can do mind reading on her anyway."

    Not that I can point my finger there- didn''t I lose many of my own emotions for a while? I just trained and taught myself to get them back early; it''s not about what other people do. Who you are doesn''t depend on another person''s behavior.

    "And if you do force me to read her mind, then I can learn whatever the two of you may or may not have had together," I said. "And I can tell your wife."

    The skinny brown-skinned men who were sniffing chemicals and yelling got bored of following me and found interest in a pile of garbage.

    "You''re a piece of shit," said Connor.

    "I love you, Connor," I said. "Bye."

 --X--

    --X--

    The Lowdown had a disgusting stench.

    It was abhorrent and nauseating- combined smells of dead animals and smoke and substances and garbage swimming in unmoving water that hadn''t been touched for years and years and years.

    It took about ten minutes for Connor to send the folders to my cell phone. It took about nine for me to identify the man I was now looking for- Reynaldo Mendoza Torres. Apparently, the Manila Maniac''s drug dealer. Belinda was right; so far, there wasn''t a name on the actual murderer.

    I thought maybe I could help change that. I was scrolling through Torres''s contacts and old addresses when a voice came through, in my mind, telepathically. Caleb''s.

    "Howdy," he said.

    "Hi," I said. "You could have just called me, you know."

    "I didn''t want to totally disrupt you from the very important info you''re looking at," said Caleb.

    Telepathy felt nice. Maybe it''s because I didn''t have one constant human in my life until Malcolm, but it made me feel special- almost like it reminded me that someone, any person at all, would take time to communicate with me, form a bond, form a connection.

    Communicating directly through telepathy wasn''t bound by any "social norms." It wasn''t bound by anything at all- it was you, and the other person. Nothing else came into play.

    Caleb continued.

    "And besides," he said. "You have a mind as beautiful as you are. It''s where I want to be."

    My mind was literally full of PTSD and poems that probably no one on earth wanted to hear.

    "That''s... funny," I said.

    "I meant it," said Caleb.

    I smiled. "Thank you," I said. I paused. "And I mean for last night."

    I felt the delight, the satisfaction in his telepathic voice. "You had a good time?" he said.

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    "Shut up," I said. "Well. Yes. Whatever."

    I was ready to jump off a cliff.

    He laughed, and it was the nicest sound my mind could ever feel, from anywhere. And I knew I had to end the conversation.

    "I meant thanks for keeping me safe," I said. "Now there''s a murderer I need to help identify, okay?"

    I watched a man on a dilapidated motorcycle drive off into a street to my right.

    "Naw, thank you," said Caleb. His telepathic voice laughed again. "You mean the world to me, Chris."

    There was this peculiar, mild burning sensation in my left hand- possibly one of the many end results of the injuries and the physical tortures we were put through in Nightingale. I wondered where Kaylee was, how she was feeling.

    Nightingale...

    Maybe there was some kind of chemical antidote somewhere out there, or a leaf or a fruit or a tree, for all of the sociopath-made substances and poison they pumped into our bodies, into our blood without our permission; without anyone''s permission at all, really, as far as Kaylee and I knew. I wasn''t sure what was worse- what they forced into our systems, or how they chose to force them into us.

    "You''re everything to me," said Caleb.

    I followed the motorcycle from a reasonable distance.

    I said nothing.

    "I care about you," said Caleb.

    I tried not to feel anything too emotional; I tried not to feel emotions at all, but he was making me melt. Now was not the time for marshmallow melting.

    My eyes were still on the motorcycle. It was cadmium green, and it pulled over beside a really filthy, really seedy bar. I wanted to laugh and also cry because I used to work there.

    "Are you and Kaylee going to visit the Port today?" I said.

    The man on the motorcycle wore a tinted cerulean helmet, and he didn''t remove it when he entered the establishment.

    "Caleb?" I said.

    "I just told you I cared about you," said Caleb.

    There it was again- that feeling, that guilt. That same exact guilt I had felt the night before.

    A marshmallow covered in strawberry jam, cream, shields, defenses, walls, and barriers. A recipe of me.

    Best served with hot cocoa.

    I didn''t love it. But I was working on it, the best I could.

    And frankly, the feeling itself had no point. Caleb and I... we got as close as two humans could possibly get.

    Was it even guilt, or was it longing?

    "I care about you, too, Caleb," I said. "You know that. I just... look, I have stuff to do. I''m sorry."

    I turned my attention back to the folders on the cell phone.

    "It''s just nice to hear it," said Caleb.

    I found facial composites and photographs in one of the files and immediately started a search for names and IDs. I hated breaking connections with Caleb. I would have spent my life with him. But I needed to go.

    "Can you tell Kaylee I said thank you for the ice cream?" I said. "I mean, you know. From yesterday night."

    "You mean the ice cream you never ate?"

    "Yes."

    "You thanked her."

    "I did?"

    "Yes," said Caleb. "You did."

    "Oh." I was getting irritated; the stupid search was taking longer than usual. "Just tell her again, anyway. And tell Malcolm I love him, when you drop by."

    "Will do," said Caleb. "I love you, Danny."

    "I love you," I replied.

    Within minutes I had identified a place to visit for some information. I wasn''t going to find the relevant people in the hotel. Belinda''s address would have to wait.

 --XI--

    --XI--

    I positioned my feet carefully.

    If I fell here, then it was going to be three and a half stories to the ground. And that wouldn''t really be too much of an issue in one sense.

    But it would give away my location.

    I repositioned my left hand. With my right I steadied the earpiece.

    "...not going to deliver until the 23rd, four PM."

    "Yes, sir."

    The people speaking were far down; the earpiece allowed me to get closer without being there. I was balanced on the trusses of a large and unfinished gable roof.

    This is where Torres and other dealers carried out their own operations. I always made sure to have as little to do with drug dealers as possible; this was an obvious exception.

    "Joaquin!" said one voice.

    "Yes, sir," said another voice.

    "Colombia?" said the first voice. There was a shuffling sound, and then the sound of bags hitting a surface. Maybe the floor, or a table, or a wall. "Black Stuff? Or Chalk?"

    "Angel Dust, sir."

    "How many?"

    Inwardly I groaned. Maybe I was wasting my time here.

    I climbed higher, to the top of the triangular structure, simultaneously using my phone''s holograph to memorize faces of more people- contacts that Connor or Belinda or I could investigate later; perhaps even see in person.

    Then something caught my attention.

    Somewhere below me, between crates and bricks and stacks of wood: a man not much taller than I, with dyed neon blue hair, braided on one side and with shiny, metallic green highlights.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    He was scribbling on what looked like a clipboard, or maybe a large pad of paper; I couldn''t really tell. I just knew I needed to get a closer look.

    I gave myself ten seconds, to assess whether or not there were too many people, to weigh the dangers, if any; if moving now was worth the risk.

    I dropped down, to a tall stack of crates about a story below me.

    "Midnight!" It was Kaylee''s telepathic voice. "Hey!"

    From the top of the stack of crates, I leaped towards an empty window frame.

    I was still flying through the air when I responded.

    "I''m just a bit busy right now, Kaylee," I said. "I''m sorry. Can we talk later?"

    I caught the windowsill with my fingertips, without making a sound.

    "Two minutes and I''ll be done," said Kaylee.

    "One minute," I said.

    I hopped off of the wall and onto another stack of crates, this one bringing me much closer to the ground.

    "Okay," said Kaylee. "Fine! I just wanted to say that Caleb came home today, really happy. He was like a Christmas tree."

    I had no idea what a Christmas tree had to do with Caleb being happy, but I said, "Okay."

    "So, whatever you did, and I mean, whatever you did- thank you."

    I did this little squeaky high-pitched telepathic laugh. It was pitiful. "You''re welcome, Kaylee. Talk to you later."

    I hopped off of the top crate and reached ground level, in perfect silence. I smiled. I was meant to do everything soundlessly. It always felt nice doing the job the way it was meant to be done.

    I moved closer to the man in question.

    It was simple; Meadows or occasionally Wyatt Shafer, a man who took people in for questioning, did the more "brutal" work (brutal in my opinion at least). Belinda was the smart one. I was the hamster that stole cheese and fruits and grains and vegetables from places, if these things might have a strand of hair on them, or maybe some fingerprints. I was useless in a fight, but simultaneously I wasn''t useless in a fight- that''s what James said. Apparently I proved it before getting the job.

    I hated fighting. I hated it, absolutely hated it. I couldn''t say this enough, emphasize this enough. And only in part because it was my job to avoid anything that might jeopardize the investigation; it was my job to not give anything away.

    I''d defended myself plenty of times. But while working, I mostly couldn''t afford any fights- and I still wouldn''t enjoy them if I could.

    It was easy for me to follow the man undetected. It took me some light and a small mirror to get what I needed first: a glimpse of the tattoo on his face.

    Butterfly, between the left eye and left ear.

    Reynaldo Mendoza Torres.

    I waited while Torres approached an old wooden desk, put down the pen and pad of paper, and sat down. He took a phone call that lasted five seconds and offered nothing useful. Then he left.

    I scanned the area. I didn''t know for sure if it was meant to be some kind of large warehouse or factory or department store; it was empty except for construction materials. And drugs. And the people selling the drugs. But they all were too far away, and not even looking. No cameras.

    It took me only about 90 seconds to put on my gloves, snag the pen Torres used to write, swab the desk and the chair behind it, take one blank sheet of paper from the pad- the one at the bottom- place everything in evidence bags, and vanish from the scene.

 --XII--

    --XII--

    I think I looked like a kid in a candy store, walking away from the Lowdown. Partly because on the way home I bought myself a strawberry-and-chocolate-flavored popsicle for extra happiness. I called Caleb.

    OOOOO THIS POPSICLE YUMMY.

    Yay

    "Cawef!" I said. "Auw ewf eeh aef Bwimah oh uma oh."

    "Chris?" said Caleb.

    He sounded alarmed. I wasn''t sure why.

    "Where are you?" said Caleb. "Are you okay, are you safe?"

    Uhm

    I was so confused.

    "Is someone else there?" he said. "Is the person who put a gag on you there with you?"

    I paused. I tried to think about it, for just the fraction of a second.

    When was the LAST time there was a gag on my mou-

    Actually, never mind.

    "TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE," he said. "NOW."

    Wait, so he-

    So he didn''t already KNOW I was strolling out of the Lowdown with a source of calories and with new information and skipping every other step while also casually hopping over mutated rat-cockroach-worm-hybrid feces every two seconds on jagged asphalt?

    AWWWWWWWWW

    Cute of him not to read my mind <3 <3

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSS

    Well, either that, or I was still thinking of ratatouille recipes.

    I mean, I literally don''t even know how to cook at all, so that made a lot of sense. The only cooking tool I had any experience with from the Lowdown was a hot frying pan. When I was ten, I think.

    It was repeatedly smashed against my face.

    I removed the popsicle from my mouth. "It''s a popsicle," I said.

    I listened to him put down the phone and walk away, breathe heavily for a while, and then come back on the line.

    "Chris," he said. "Chris. Please, DON''T SCARE ME like that."

    Bruh ur dad scary. Shut up pls

    Also if a phone call from me on a Saturday so scary GO PLAY A HORROR GAME.

    Damn.

    "Can you please save Belinda''s number onto my phone?" I said.

    "Of course," said Caleb.

    "Okay, call you later, I love you!" I said.

    One of the clouds in the sky, a purple one, was shaped like a rainbow. I laughed. A cloud shaped like a rainbow. The one beside it, an orange one, was shaped like a cat eating a bowl of lasagna. I put the popsicle back in my mouth.

    OOOOOOOOO it makes me happy

    Yay

    Ice cream

    Yay

    OK well technically, it''s probably not even ice cream, like probably it''s technically-

    "CHRIS," said Caleb.

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    I paused in my walk for just a moment. I surveyed all of the very unmaintained, falling-apart buildings around me. The Lowdown still always smelled like literal feces, just like it always did. Every single other person around still stared at me for as long as they possibly could, just like they always did.

    What more did he want from me? I was going to see him at midnight at the Port, anyway. We always went there. People knew we walked there in the mornings; that I worked out there.

    But midnights were our secret.

    "AIh hHaid," I said into the receiver, "AIh luhHf U."

    Like

    You know

    Like I-love-you-you-can-go-now I love you <3 <3

    "Chris." he said. "This is why people read your mind."

    WHAT IS YOU INSINUATING BRO

    I hung up.

    --

    I called Belinda Klein next- immediately, upon disconnecting from Caleb. She picked up after eleven rings.

    "Who is this?" said Belinda.

    "Widnigh," I said.

    "YOU ARE CALLING ME ON A SATURDAY EVENING," said Belinda.

    "Emwf," I said. "Aa ohh."

    "WHAT IS IN YOUR MOUTH?" said Belinda.

    I removed the popsicle from my mouth. "Nothing," I said.

    "Make this good," said Belinda. "Or you will spend the rest of YOUR life doing MY paperwork."

    Bitch u can''t do that to me

    "YES, I FUCKING CAN. YOU JUST FUCKING WATCH ME," she said. "Now why the fuck are you fucking calling me on a fucking Saturday fucking evening?!"

    It was her evening for F-word?

    Oh, my God.

    Oh my God I did not want to know that

    "SPEAK NOW OR DIE ON MONDAY!" she said.

    "I can confirm that the Manila Maniac''s alleged drug dealer is still around, and is operating in the Lowdown," I said. I think Belinda could probably hear the smile in my voice. "I can confirm the location, and I possibly, maybe, might have some DNA and/or some fingerprints for everyone! Caleb and I also think that the murderer may have attempted to send me a text message from a masked number."

    Belinda was silent.

    "Isn''t that great, Belinda?" I said. "Oh, and they sell Angel Dust there. What does that do? Is it some kind of new compound created from US experiments or something?"

    Silence.

    There was a raccoon on the sidewalk. It was brown and white and gray. I walked toward it.

    "Belle?" I said.

    More silence.

    The raccoon was adorable. I once heard that raccoons used to never live here. I wished I saw more of them.

    Hewwo cuuute lidduw animawwwww :3

    "Hi?" I said. "Belinda?"

    Belinda was still silent.

    I knelt down and gave the raccoon the rest of my popsicle. Hopefully it liked chocolate, because the popsicle was mostly just the chocolate half now. I opened the pack of eggplant-flavored jellybeans I bought while I was waiting for Klein to finally pick up. I was actually surprised she didn''t just use a voice inbox. Or maybe she had multiple phone numbers, and I just called the best one.

    More silence, again. I chewed and swallowed the cheap, dry, unsatisfying jellybeans. I looked at the packaging. JOHNSON FAMILY''S UNADDICTIVE, DRUG-FREE EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS! it read. HARVESTED FROM THE BACK OF THE JOHNSON FAMILY''S FARMING TRUCK, MADE WITH 100% REAL EGGPLANTS. BEST FAMILY EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS FOR YOUR NON DRUG ADDICTED OFFSPRING AND CHILDREN!

    Offspring and children? Aww.

    That''s so inclusive of them! I thought.

    Belinda still wasn''t responding. Although for a moment, I thought I did hear her breathing, very slowly. She was breathing VERY slowly. And loudly. I wasn''t even sure what I was really hearing then.

    Maybe it really IS her evening for F-word-

    Ohhhhhh

    Oh God please no

    Oh I''m gonna slightly politely puke

    You know. Like, eggplant-flavored jellybean projectile puke. Politely.

    Oh please no. Oh damn that is nasty.

    Calm down Klein is not nasty

    Okay maybe not THAT nasty

    She kind of was, though...

    No she kinda is tho

    No pls

    ORBIPLOSIONS PLS

    I don''t even know what those are but pls

    Spoiler alert: Waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

    I decided to read the back of the tacky, light green, plastic food packaging as well, while I waited. JOHNSON FAMILY''S UNADDICTIVE, DRUG-FREE EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS. PRODUCT NOT LICENSED BY THE U.S. FDAAA. ALSO NOT LICENSED BY THE U.S. AAA OR AA. DOES NOT TREAT ALCOHOL ADDICTION. DOES NOT TREAT VYSTIR-RELATED CONDITIONS OR OTHER CHEMICALLY-MUTATED AILMENTS. WARNING: DO NOT FEED TO BIRDS. BIRDS MAY ATTACK YOU. INGREDIENTS: SODIUM. MADE IN THE OVERWOODS. ALLERGEN INFORMATION: PROCESSED IN A FACILITY THAT ALSO HANDLES GOOSE EGGS, SYNTHETIC CHEESE, "BUTTER," ARTIFICIAL COFFEE, METFORMIN, HIGHLY CONCENTRATED CANE SUGAR, INSULIN, COCA LEAVES, AND SOME FORMS OF METHAMPHETAMINE. LOST CONTROL OF YOUR COCAINE USE? CONTACT THE JOHNSON FAMILY.

    I chewed and swallowed. The jellybeans were somehow more delicious the more of them you ate.

    "You don''t like Angel Dust?" I said to Belinda- assuming she was still there.

    "Midnight," Belinda said. I was almost relieved! And happy at the same time. It was the first thing she said for a really hot minute.

    Oh.

    :D

    OK she''s still there!!!

    : DDDD :DDD : DDDDD

    I was so happy, my mind was practically speaking in emojis, but minus the actual emojis, so I had to settle for random smiley faces with many chins. Like

    : DDDD

    She didn''t have to say anything, I guess. I was just happy she heard everything! And extremely happy that I found at least something to help us possibly go forward.

    "Yes?" I said.

    The cute little raccoon took the popsicle and scuttled away. I wished I had some bread to give it. Raccoons love bread.

    "Suck a dick," Belinda said.

    OH. MY.

    GOSH

    She''s so happy with my investigation that she wants me to go suck a dick!

    It was also very sweet of her to validate that I was gay!

    "Oh," I said, unable to contain my happiness. It was so nice of her. I chewed and swallowed a few more eggplant jellybeans. "Thank you, Belinda," I said, smiling. "Yes, I think I will."

    She hung up.

    I ate the last few jellybeans, expertly tossed the empty jellybean packaging into the pocket of Caleb''s jacket (there were no trash cans in the Lowdown), pounced off of a few buildings, and flew spinning towards the Suburb-Everglade part of V5 for my evening tumbling routine.

 --XIII--

    --XIII--

    The second-hand smoke from Belinda''s lungs was a dark slate gray. It felt like poison, and I had to sit next to her.

    "We''ll know in two weeks," said Elsie as she readjusted her aquamarine aluminum eyeglasses. "If we find anything in the hotel that matches." She glanced at me. "You don''t need to do any further inspecting."

    The night sky was just as starry and cloudless as it was yesterday evening. Streetlights illuminated the road on my right side, and the glow was like candlelight on the dark maroon tablecloth.

    I stabbed a potato with my fork. "In two weeks?" I said. "There has to be more that we can do."

    Elyza "Elsie" Cobb, with an IQ of 175, was a specialist in one of the many forensics teams I worked with. She wasn''t as difficult as, say, Belinda- but she delivered bad news, and delivered good news like it was bad news.

    "Within two weeks, I posit," she said.

    Posit.

    The team was gathered at Crisanto Pacifico- a diner located just outside of the Suburbs, where food prices weren''t insanely unreasonable. This was where I met with people if it was necessary, and wasn''t a weekday.

    But this time, I wasn''t the one who called the meeting; it was James, who sat across from me at the table. We were outside in the balmy and humid air, about a hundred meters higher in elevation than Vicinity One and Vicinity Two, which bordered a side of the Everglades- the area where Crisanto Pacifico was. I stared at the fountain of dancing water and fish to my left. It changed color, from yellow to blue to red to green.

    "I know what he''s thinking," said James, who was still in the process of munching away at a large toasted chicken sandwich. "He doesn''t want to wait; somebody else could get killed."

    "Or raped," I said.

    "Or raped." James swallowed, then took a pill and then a sip of his coffee.

    "Or both!" interjected Kaylee. We all turned to look at her. She was here because she read my mind and followed me here. Belinda told her to, quote, "make a beanstalk and jump on it" but she hadn''t done that yet; she was staying to listen. James decided that she could stay. "How tricky can this guy be?" she said.

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    "We technically don''t know if it''s a guy or gal, Kaylee," I said.

    "We also don''t know if it''s the same person," Wyatt said. "As whoever committed the other murders, decapapitations, rapes. Could have been a group." I barely glanced in his direction, at first. Wyatt wore an army green T-shirt with the US seal on it: a dark blue circle, with a set of balanced scales in its center, at the bottom. Above the scales were two overlapping triangles- one inverted- with some sort of shape in the middle of the upright one. Wyatt''s hair was short, brown, and salt and pepper. Kind of like the raccoon I saw earlier today. "But I''ll take Torres in for questioning." He looked at me, and smiled. "Good having you on the Union of Stars, Midnight."

    I stared at him.

    "Thank you, sir," I replied.

    "The word is decapitation, Wyatt," said Belinda.

    I changed the playlist on my phone.

    "That''s exactly what I said," replied Wyatt.

    Elsie was scrolling through something on her phone. "Why do the folders have notes on unrelated killings, from years ago?" she said. She looked up from the screen, and at Klein. "With old news articles. Some alleged ''Manila Maniac''? Sounds like a myth."

    Belinda grunted irritably. "Same area. Same signature of the killer- heads all cut off. None of the heads were found. All instances showed evidence of physical as well as sexual abuse. I deduced it was possibly the same person."

    "Or entity," said Wyatt.

    "Here''s what''s going to happen," said James, clearly sounding bored, and like he didn''t want to be here despite him calling the meeting. "Connor will conduct further investigation, in the warehouse."

    "The drug place in the Lowdown?" I said.

    "Yes," said James.

    "Connor isn''t even here."

    "Yes, I am!" Connor materialized out of thin air, in the seat between Kaylee and Wyatt.

    "How long have you been there?" I said.

    "Thought you could smell me," he replied.

    "When you''re drunk or you''re smoking or both, yeah," I said. "Nice having you."

    "Chris will take the hotel while Wyatt performs his interrogations," James said.

    "What about you?" said Belinda.

    "I''ll keep the mainland and its president happy," said James. "And prevent this place, us included, from getting blown to dust."

    Kaylee and I exchanged a glance. Not one, but both of her parents were CSOs for the Union of Stars'' Overwoods branch. And she wasn''t safe.

    Nobody said anything.

    I put on Caleb''s jacket. "I guess I better go see to that hotel, then," I said. "I love you guys."

    "Monday," James said.

    "What?" I said.

    "Monday. You take the hotel on Monday."

    I shook my head. "A fourteen-year-old was killed. Who knows if I can find this killer today and stop them? Other people could get hurt."

    James had no reservations about reading my mind. Neither did Kaylee, who was already walking away from the outdoor dining space. She was probably going to go make that beanstalk for Belinda.

    I guess you could say they always knew how to hit me and where.

    "Other people are getting hurt, Chris." James took his eyeglasses off, slowly and without touching them. "Because you aren''t spending time with them. People who want you around. People who want you to be near them."

    I didn''t know if he meant Malcolm; I didn''t know if he meant Caleb. I didn''t know if he maybe even meant anyone else. I didn''t read his mind to find out.

    "Nobody wants me around," I said.

    "That''s not true," said Connor.

    I hopped off the ground, aiming for Vicinity Two.

 --XIV--

    --XIV--

    The dirt and dust on the rooftop didn''t move when my feet connected with it.

    I looked around me. I saw all of Vicinity Two from here; nothing obscured the dispiriting view, and nothing obscured the starlight.

    Except maybe the darkness of my own memories.

    My shoes and legs didn''t need to absorb any impact, as always. I landed on what they used to call the Century Spire Tower: 60 floors of devoid, vacant, and bare; 60 floors of cold, dark, abandoned, and empty. Just like me, I guessed.

    With my hands in Caleb''s jacket pockets, I very slowly moved to the edge of the rooftop. I looked down... down, down. I looked at the outlines of sidewalks and avenues, trees and ivy and weeds, the growing things that took over half of the crumbled asphalt.

    I looked at my left hand, where there were still marks from where the experiment conductors reconstructed bone and blood vessels.

    "Do you hear me?" I said, seemingly to the sky, without any thinking.

    I somnolently made my way to the part of the rooftop where I stood at eleven years old; I stood where, if you fell, you''d hit the pavement, the concrete of an empty parking lot. And probably splatter, like a bug hitting a windshield.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Squish.

    I kicked a pebble off the top, and I could only follow it with my eyes for a second before it was no longer visible to the eye.

    It was the final day, the third month of Experiment Nightingale, the experiment that took the lives of kids that had gifts they could have used to better this world. People that could have bettered this place we live in, a place that often feels so full of darkness, a place so sick with pain.

    I remember deciding it was too full of darkness and too sick with pain. I could take pain from people; no one could take this pain from me.

    I was eleven and I didn''t fall; I jumped. Only somehow I went way too far past the entire parking space, past roads and trees and broken bicycle wheels and fire hydrants. And when I landed I remained alive; there were no new injuries, not even a scratch. That was the day I lost my mind- or should I say, I lost whatever it was I still had left after years of abuse and after Experiment Nightingale.

    I had nightmares before Nightingale; I had more after Nightingale.

    I didn''t hit the earth; the earth came to me, it took me gently in its arms like it cared to not hurt me.

    Too late.

    On that day I curled up, alone, on a sidewalk, and cried until I thought I would die and it was over. I woke up in Malcolm''s house.

    I told myself experiments were nothing new, thousands and thousands and thousands of people have been killed by these very experiments; it was nothing new, I had to move on.

    It didn''t help.

    What I''ve learned is we don''t choose what happens to us or what doesn''t; we choose who we are, when they do happen to us. We can choose to be kind when the worst has happened, we can choose to heal others rather than to hurt. What goes around comes around. It''s all that matters.

    --

 --XV--

    --XV--

    I stared at the ground far below me for a moment longer, then turned to enter the building''s top floor.

    I was in the air, spinning with previously-mastered trajectory towards the rooftop door when my cell phone rang. I tucked my body, rotated forward, and met the ground with my feet to answer.

    "Hey!" I said in my most cheery tone. "You''ve reached Midnight on this absolutely beautiful Saturday night. Can I help you?"

    "Chris." James''s voice.

    "Yes, hi."

    "Belinda wants to take you off the assignment."

    "What?"

    "She just thinks you''re unsafe."

    "I can literally jump from a sewer and onto a plane. I think I''m good."

    "Sit this one out, Chris. You can help others."

    "I''m helping others by letting someone evil run loose? I''m sick of these people, James. It''s disgusting. Something or someone is going to stop them; it may as well be me."

    James said nothing for a moment.

    "I''m staying on this case," I said.

    "Tell you what," he replied. "Tomorrow morning, after you do your church thing, or whatever it is that you Catholics like to do-"

    "Don''t categorize me."

    "Oh, sorry. Should I have said Protestant?"

    "What are we doing tomorrow?"

    He laughed because it was SO funny. "Srazhenye." He sounded affable. Amused, entertained. "Let''s see who goes down. If you win, you get to stay- work the murder case."

    "The same murder case."

    "Yes. If you win, you get to investigate further. If you lose, you''re off the case."

    Srazhenye- or SRA as we called it in the agency- was a physical fight between two or more parties in a simulated environment, typically done in one of the training rooms or gyms. Very common training, and mandatory. Twice a week if you had to do work that may involve combat. I''d been in plenty of them; I lost, mostly.

    "Who am I up against?"

    "You and Webb," said James, "versus Klein and Shafer."

    Web?

    "WHO ON EARTH IS WEB?"

    "Webb," James repeated. "You know, Webb. Elijah Webb? Webb with the double ''B.'' Like, the Ice Queen Princess?"

    Ice. Queen. PRINCESS.

    ICE QUEEN PRINCESS?!?!?!

    "Chris?" said James. "Are you still there?"

    ELIJAH?!?!?!

    "You mean ELYZA. COBB!" I replied. "COBB! THE GIRL WHO ALMOST CHOPPED YOUR HEAD OFF!"

    That was the year prior.

    "Oh," said James. "Yes, her."

    I paused. I don''t think he even really remembered; he was SO HIGH when that happened.

    I also don''t think I ever saw anyone so badly injured laugh so hard when I took the pain away.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I guessed, perhaps, that the blackening of the skin under my eyes was really funny to him. Or the literal grayness of my irises when they lost color.

    "You''re aware that I hate fighting," I said.

    "That''s why I''m making you do it," James said. He made a swallowing noise; probably a pill or something. "And before you speak, I read your mind and yes- this is your only way of staying on this case."

    I took a deep breath. I cleared my throat, closing my eyes for just a moment. I opened them, and there were no monsters before me.

    "Great," I said.

    "11 AM tomorrow. Coliseum. Don''t be late."

    --

    I stared at my phone with the happiest expression on my face long after James disconnected.

    Just kidding.

    A yell tore out of my body of its own volition when I threw the phone at the wall beside me and sat down. I wondered what Marie would have told me. She fought one of the mutated-experiment-creations of the US, during Nightingale, thinking that she had to.

    It was a test and she was wrong. You weren''t supposed to fight them. And maybe, I would have made the same mistake myself. If they didn''t end her life in front of me for one wrong move.

    She was one of the last to die in the three-month experiment. She only made one wrong move.

    Inertia demands that I keep going, for her.

    I got up, brushed the gray-and-white specks of dust off my black jeans and picked up the cell phone. Not even a crack, but I guessed that was how technology was when it was made by the Union of Stars. I walked down the sixty flights of creaky wooden stairs while watching footage of previous SRAs, uploaded to the agency''s server for all agents to see. Whatever I was going to do in the Coliseum, it was going to be for the fourteen-year-old victim, the one whose name I didn''t know; the one I never met.

    --

    Malcolm greeted me at the border between Vicinity Five and the Port. It was Sunday, 1 AM, and he brought Skittles and Crayon- our Siberian husky and Alaskan Malamute. I gave Malc a hug and gave the dogs even bigger hugs and let Crayon lick my face. I was a dog person.

    "Shouldn''t you be sleeping?" I said.

    Malcolm raised his eyebrows at me. "Shouldn''t you be home?" he replied.

    "Emergency meeting," I said. "James called. Like always."

    The Port streets were empty and silent, save for the subtle sound of waves on nearby shores. Amber-colored lights and fireflies flickered above us as I smelled the salt from the ocean.

    "Kaylee and her brother dropped by earlier with Bollito Misto," said Malcolm. "And pot roast. Said you told ''em to say ''I love you'' for ya."

    "I can confirm," I said.

    He smiled. "I love you, too, little buddy."

    "You sure I shouldn''t get you a bigger house if I can?"

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    "Hey." He put his hands up in front of him. "It''s your money."

    "How long did you wait for me? I mean, you didn''t know how long until I was coming home. Or if I was even coming home today at all."

    "Doesn''t matter."

    We walked in silence for a few moments, Skittles panting and wagging her fluffy curled tail. Then Crayon stood motionless. He turned to face one of the alleyways beside the street; he started growling.

    "What''s wrong, Crayon?" I said. Crayon was the very perceptive one, and the very protective one. His white fur looked like it was bristling. "Is someone there?"

    Crayon kept growling.

    My tone shifted from its usual silvery and mellow to something else.

    "Stay here," I said to Malcolm.

    "Chris, what''s going on?"

    I spoke in a hushed tone, but a furious one. "Just stay here. Where the light is." I surveyed the area around us. Nothing conspicuous. "Stay here, don''t make any sound."

    Silence. Nothing except the waves.

    "Malcolm," I said. "Take the dogs, right now, and go home."

    "I''m not leaving you here."

    "You have to." I looked at him. "Do it, now."

    I heard what sounded like a footstep. I knew whoever it was tried to conceal its sound; I knew what feet on the ground sounded like, or on staircases or on a trampoline or on a ledge- walking or jumping or running. Or trying to remain undetected. Or failing to do so. Slowly, I walked toward my approximation of where the sound came from, and reached into my pocket; I needed the earpiece.

    The alley was dark when I wrapped my hand around the earpiece. But the moment I pressed it into my ear, I didn''t need it anymore.

    --

    There was a yell behind me. It was harrowed, agonized- an older adult male''s yell; a sound generated by a voice that was strong, and gravelly.

    Malcolm.

    I whipped around with two throwing knives already in my left hand. The attacker wore all-black; not one inch of bare skin was exposed, completely eliminating my initial objective of finding a concrete and clear physical trait, to identify them later if not now.

    The attacker was maybe 5''8, 5''9. Possibly male, possibly female- I had no way to really know. Average build.

    Malcolm was on the ground and injured; there was a small pool of what looked like blood where he was on the street, his face contorted. The dogs- I wasn''t ready for the dogs. Skittles and Crayon weren''t moving.

    Darts.

    There were darts on them- I immediately prayed they were sedatives only, and not poison. I''d been shot with poison darts before and lived. Maybe they would be okay.

    The attacker had a gun pointed at me; I recognized it at once- a projectile electric stunner. Two things perplexed me at that moment.

    One: They weren''t trying to kill me.

    Two: How did they get one?

    These fancy non-lethal guns were, as far as I knew, only accessible in mainland US, nowhere else. I''d seen them only because of previous assignments that required me to take trips to the Union of Stars'' main headquarters or other mainland US locations; I had never seen one in the Overwoods.

    That only scared me more- if they were a US agent or some kind of operative, for whoever, were they attempting to kidnap people for experiments? Specific people? Telepaths? Previously experimented-on telepaths? None of these things were unheard of.

    That chain of thought was all I needed. If I wasn''t going to kill this person, I was going to make sure someone else would.

    They were standing over what to me looked like Skittles'' dead body. I lunged at them, and I mean I lunged at them. It took a split second for me to position my feet, figure out the line and distance, push off for maximum flight.

    I collided hard and fast into our masked attacker''s body, and then we were flying, through and beyond walls, and posts and columns and shelves and alleys and billboard commercials and broken glass windows- until I slammed them onto a blue building, one beside one of the most abandoned-looking convenience stores; a building made of layers and layers of steel and tempered glass.

    I flipped backwards twice, taking my earpiece off and also taking the can of flash spray from my jeans pocket in the process; I didn''t want to hurt the attacker beyond whatever was necessary. I also had an SRA to be a part of.

    "Do I say, ''it''s nice to see you again?''" I said in what James called my "signature" calm-when-attacking voice. "Or do you say it to me? You wrote me a love letter, right?"

    And this time, I wanted a fight. I wasn''t going to let this monster leave the scene easily. I wasn''t going to let them leave the scene, period.

    I took two steps and a half, pushed off the ground, and spun fast in a diagonal with my left leg raised and poised near my face. The masked whoever-they-were attempted to minimize any impact from the attack by shielding with their arms. My leg came down from the spin on their torso, smashing the black generator they landed on. I was hoping they''d talk. Or groan. But all I heard was breathing, and an aulmost inaudible grunt of pain. Still no information.

    "This isn''t fun for either of us," I said. "Or am I wrong?"

    I had to do this with speed- to go back to Malcolm and the dogs- and decided to engage quickly and make our fight a short one.

    I soon learned something: this attacker wasn''t planning to stay or to fight.

    I was never a killer, yet I wanted this man or woman to pay. I felt ready for a war.

    But the man or woman who attacked us that day had other plans.

    The one time I wanted a fight, and the other party wasn''t interested.

    I took a red, rusty, and blotchy piece of bent metal from a pile of disorganized scrap next to us. The attacker was still on the ground, recovering the air knocked out of their lungs.

    "If I''m who you want to mess with," I said, "then leave the rest of the world out of it. You do what miserable, low-down, pathetic cowards do." There was a burning in the damaged ligaments in my left hand. There was an acrimony and venom in my voice that even I didn''t hear often. "You could have just gone for me!"

    They clicked on a shiny silver canister from a pocket.

    It took only a moment: I was in a cloud of what felt like poison, only a hundred times worse than Belinda''s second-hand smoke, and I didn''t have a mask on me. I was on my knees and choking and coughing and vomiting the french fries that I''d ordered earlier at Crisanto Pacifico.

    When the mist cleared I was still alive, but a note written on red paper left in front of me told me why, apparently. I was still coughing; both my eyes were producing tears like waterfalls and I had to wipe them a million times to finally make out the words:

    "IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME

    I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    -M M

    PS

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN"

    --

    I wasn''t sure how long it took for me to make my way back to Malcolm. I was afraid. Afraid to see how badly he was hurt; afraid to see if Skittles and Crayon... if they were still here, still with us.

    There was blood streaming through an open cut on the left side of my face; it only irritated me because it got in my eye. I hopped back toward the general direction of where Malcolm and I were walking, the note in a plastic evidence bag sealed twice with security tape, in Caleb''s jacket pocket- but I wasn''t going to give it to anyone. As for Caleb''s jacket, I was going to have to wash it at home, wear something else for the SRA.

    But I was dizzy, lightheaded, I didn''t quite get my trajectory right and ended up smashing through a glass door of some building somewhere and tumbled to the floor in a heap, a heap made of pain and fear and awful, horrible memories, a heap that was bleeding and still coughing. I was moving as fast as I humanly possibly could, when finding my bearings was almost impossible. I was in so much pain that I didn''t even notice it was raining until I was there, a bleeding heap on the floor, looking outside and up at the sky. I didn''t assess the damage; I ignored the pain and got up and ran. I kept going for about two blocks until the stitch in my side was almost unbearable. It wasn''t pain that I could ignore- but I kept moving.

    I turned a corner. Malcolm used his coat to wrap around the injury- I couldn''t see it; it was somewhere on his left arm, and his face was still twisted by pain, and there was blood on the coat. I immediately went to Skittles. I didn''t want to do what I was about to do. I put my hands on Skittles'' fur, on her side. I put both my hands on him and waited for seconds, and then a minute, and then another minute. I felt nothing.

    Nothing.

    That was when I began to cry, not from the toxic gas but because, yet again, I had lost another part of me; I had lost, yet again, some of the little that I still had left. I wasn''t someone who ever had very much. What little I had, I treasured.

    I quickly did the same with Crayon.

    "Come on," I said, my voice despairing and small and broken and more raspy than it ever had been before. I felt nothing. I wiped tears and dirt and blood off my cheeks, and tried again. "I know you''re in there," I said. "I know you are!" I waited another minute. I breathed whatever my lungs would allow me, choked and squeezed as they were by the poison. "You''re still in there."

    I started coughing hard. I felt something like thunder, but couldn''t hear it. I didn''t know what I was anymore. I didn''t know where I was anymore. I knew where I was, but I didn''t. I felt pain and yet nothing existed.

    "You''re still in there," I repeated. "You have to be. You''re still here." My vision was going purple and gray and black at the edges; I thought positive thoughts, such as "the glass is half full." I swallowed hard, my hands still on Crayon''s white fur, and cleared my throat. "COME ON!"

    "Chris," Malcolm said.

    I turned to look at him.

    He looked back at me, and written on his face were all the words I didn''t need to hear; I didn''t want to hear.

    I couldn''t.

    I covered my face with both my hands and sobbed, but I could only allow myself this indulgence for a minute. I took my phone and called an emergency service. I approached Malcolm.

    "Chris," he said sternly. "Don''t do this."

    "I am going to do it."

    "No," he said. "No, you''re not!"

    "Yes, I am." I coughed again, cleared my throat, and sniffed. I blinked a few times. I took his hand in both of mine, and like the usual it took only a few seconds. The pain was beyond description of words that I knew.

    Fractures. I knew it instantly. Open fractures.

    I knew the feeling exactly. It happened during the experiment, and it happened before the experiment, too.

    In a world full of poison, of immorality: if you are stranded in a place where the only things around are evil, what do you do?

    You run to the arms of the lesser evil.

    You try to survive. With whatever is actually available to you.

    I gritted my imperfect teeth as blood poured from the wound on my face. "Help''s coming, dad." I had to breathe as deeply as I could, as calmly, slowly, and deeply as I could; this is what you do when you are in extreme pain, from a severe injury.

    "Chris, let me go."

    He shifted his hand, the one I was holding, only slightly. But the pain that even that small movement caused was like a flash of pure white lightning, I cried out, and if possible started to sob louder than when I knew Crayon and Skittles were gone.

    "Son, let go!"

    "Just don''t move," I said. My eyes started to lose their color, and turned gray, the blood vessels below my eyes turning a very visible black, like black paint hurled at a wall and dripping downward. It happened whenever I took the suffering from someone and it was a lot of effort and a lot of pain. I looked up at the rain, at the sky, at the clouds that seemed to have come from nowhere. Good thing I sealed the note, said a voice in my mind.

    Did I even give a shit anymore?

    Maybe, I should have fought the monster; the hideous thing. Maybe Marie and I should have done it together.

    Maybe from the experiment, Kaylee should have been the only survivor.

 --XVI--

    --XVI--

    I looked from the obsidian black sky above us- an unrelenting endless darkness, it seemed, not with any clouds that I could make out- and down to Malcolm''s face. I remember that was difficult to tell my tears from the rain, or his tears from the rain- or whichever tears were from his eyes or the ones which were my own. They were falling onto him; I didn''t care.

    Perhaps, enough water to drown in. I know I drowned.

    The dead bodies of both Skittles and Crayon were just yards away. White fur. White fur that protected hearts that were no longer beating. I refused to look. Too much.

    "Chris." Malcolm''s voice was almost as ragged as mine. Almost. He wasn''t poisoned- at least not that I could tell. I wondered what else happened; at times Malcolm couldn''t use his abilities. Was it just the aftereffects of the Vystir incident? Maybe that was the case, or Joe incapacitated him early, before Malc could do anything. I''m calling the attacker Joe now, I thought. That makes things easier. The un-colored liquid from my eyes, that was starting to run down onto my nose and onto my lip and into my mouth, was no longer water. Not for the first time, I tasted my blood. I am in such a happy place. Happy place, happy place. Happy happy. I didn''t want to know who the attacker was anymore. I couldn''t care about that. It felt as though I couldn''t care about anything. I heard Marie''s voice, calling my name. Calling me.

    Asking me to save her.

    But Joe is a nice friendly name. Let''s call the attacker Joe.

    A strange wave of nausea and very uneven gravity washed over my entire body. An invisible shockwave of grief and exhaustion. Searing hot.

    Joe is going to be sitting in a chair.

    Wyatt is going to set the chair on fire.

    I am going to personally tie Joe to the chair myself.

    My left hand twitched.

    I didn''t mean it. I could never tie anyone, to anything, after the horrors that were inflicted upon me... at an age much too young, in places that were beyond miserable, by "people" that were beyond wretched, beyond cursed, beyond totally evil.

    To even call them people at all: a severely undeserved compliment.

    I shut my eyes for just one moment, the barrage of memories like explosions in the sky; towers and castles coming down onto the earth, all coming down, in pieces. Many times, I was forced to swallow fear like it was water.

    I was forced to swallow a lot of things.

    So.

    Many.

    Different.

    Things.

    Because those "people" did not stop at chemicals.

    Painful: an understatement.

    Traumatic: an understatement.

    I will be the one to tell you:

    Monsters are real. They just look like people.

    There, in the rain, under the darkness, and under the storm clouds that I practically couldn''t even see, I began to hum one of the songs I wrote; I wrote hundreds of them.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    The pain told me where Malcolm''s injuries were.

    I can''t think anymore

    "It''s too much," Malc said to me, in the same voice that he used to tell me I wasn''t being kidnapped or harmed, the day I woke up in his house for the first time, after I jumped off Century Spire. "Chris, please." Somewhere between our heavy breaths mixing and the thousands of raindrops hitting concrete, I heard him sniff. "I don''t want you to hurt."

    What-

    Shut the EFF UP Malc

    Idiot needs to lie to me when I am in SO MUCH PAIN

    What did he say?

    It took me a second to process. I felt my lips move, almost automatically.

    "When did anybody care if I was hurting?" I whispered, without any thought or tact. Literally without thought entirely.

    I shook my head.

    HE IS NOT LYING

    No, he wasn''t.

    But it took me a while to figure that out.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSSSSSS

    Black spots started to obscure my vision. He cared... he did care. I had to believe it. Sometimes, I did.

    Happy place

    Sometimes, I couldn''t.

    Happy place...

    I remembered Belinda Klein''s snake tattoos, the ones that glared at me, staring as the sheets of forged contracts, covert and overt operation proposals, investigations, facial composites, instructions, and crime records flew all around me and down onto the floor. Seething. Their red eyes trying to brand into me that I should not get involved.

    Not to get involved. I was told not to get involved.

    This...

    Was this all... my fault?

    I repeated myself. "When did anybody ever care, if I was hurting?" It was still soft as a whisper. I closed my eyes again. It never happened.

    I blinked my eyes open and forced myself to look at Skittles. A pool of slightly darker gray surrounded the dead, wet body. I later learned that it was blood.

    Malcolm snarled and growled in his gruff Port accent.

    "When Kaylee got you the drive. When Caleb manipulated computers for you." He was begging me to stop, yet I felt nothing, apart from the completely shattered bone in the wrong place and the warmth that I somehow always felt with him. "When James saved you." He paused. "When I saved you."

    Did he save me? He did- or he probably did. He did, I remember thinking to myself. And I knew it. But there was not one good thing that I could call to mind at that time; not one good thing existed in that place and in that moment. If I had any good memories at all, from anywhere at all... they were nowhere. Why did these people waste time on me? In spite of all of the gratitude I usually felt toward them, I felt only like a weight, an abhorrent thing, a waste- something ugly and awful; something nobody should accept, something that should be destroyed.

    It was on his face, the pleading. His hair was some color between russet and chestnut brown, with just a few strands of silver every here and there. Like coffee. It was the color of his mustache and beard, too. His eyes were blue, but not like Scott''s or Caleb''s- it was deep blue. Ultramarine.

    A color I didn''t know existed until I met him; it was the color that, at that moment, my eyes could no longer pick up on. I said nothing. I was shivering and it wasn''t the rain; it was the memories.

    I was a marshmallow tossed into a jet engine.

    "Chris!" he insisted, as the rain grew stronger; as the rain became an almost-welcome distraction. "I can''t see you like this."

    I kept expecting Crayon to bark at me. To tell me it was time to pack up and go, like he would on my Thursday workouts running in the woods- where he would follow me- to tell me it was time to call it a day, get him a bagel from Pacifico, take a shower, have a hot dinner of potatoes or mushrooms or artichokes, on the sand beside the seawater- with Malcolm beside us; with Skittles beside us. Skittles. The adorable white Husky. I heard her little yips in my head; I heard the way she always greeted me after a high-level target takedown mission or after an SRA.

    "Then don''t-" I inhaled a sharp breath, held it, and breathed out as slowly as I could.

    The pain was beyond blinding; more than an open drain underneath your bathtub of sanity, and yet still more than the pain... were the memories.

    I saw streaks of black appear under my eyes. Little memories- of the tortures Kaylee and I endured- swam in my befuddled mind.

    I felt my eyes go from gray to something else, something maybe close to white, close to transparent, close to invisible, close to nonexistent.

    I had nightmares when I slept at night; when I walked past the ruins of that destroyed school- the one in the Lowdown and not the one in the Suburbs- flashes of blood and rope and smoke and dead bodies swam in front of me.

    I can''t see you like this, was what he said. Strands of my hair- black and simultaneously more black than usual- guided the rainwater and tears down my face, down my neck.

    Down onto the ground which I was lower than.

    "Then don''t look."

 --XVII--

    --XVII--

    The Everglades Hospital emergency room was black and gray. Either that or my eyes still hadn''t recovered.

    "Chris." Caleb''s voice.

    I was facing a wall, which had some kind of painting of some sunflowers. I liked sunflowers.

    But they were black and gray.

    "Danny," said Caleb. "Come on, it''s me."

    The second I turned around, he folded me in his huge caucasian arms. Remember when all I wanted was an embrace? Hurray. I got one.

    I broke his little prison of muscle and hair and walked toward the exit. "I fucked up your jacket, I know."

    He let me take two steps further.

    "Does it ever occur to you that people need you?" said Caleb.

    The light on the ceiling was gray. The nurses'' desk was black. There were chairs on the plain tile floor and they were black. But not black- not a color, but a void. The new tears that wet my face were the color of ash. I turned around despite them.

    "Can you make that make sense to me?" I said.

    He walked toward me slowly. His gaze met mine- I was staring daggers at him without meaning to. About half an hour ago, he telepathically told me to "stay where you are." Behind a gray curtain, fifteen feet in front of me and to my left, were the amazing people that wore gray gloves and masks, trying to fix the exact same damage that was inflicted on me, years ago. I saw no shade of blue in Caleb''s eyes. Just gray, everything was black and gray. I automatically wondered how Crayon was doing, how Skittles was doing. Naturally and out of habit, I felt excitement- imagining me hugging the big white dogs with fluffy tails that wagged whenever I would go to Malcolm''s house again, imagining me getting to pet the lovable, cute things that manipulated no one. Then I coughed, the pain from the poison in my chest digging a frozen hook through my spine and dragging me back into reality.

    "Hey," said Caleb. He put his hands on my arms, gently. "Are you all right?"

    That was literally the dumbest question someone could have possibly asked me.

    "I''m so sorry," Caleb said, telepathically this time. "Stay with me, Chris."

    That was the same exact thought I had myself, less than two hours ago. My head pounded. I wanted to just crumble. To crumble and to let someone else take care of me, maybe for once.

    I cleared my throat.

    "I''m sorry about your jacket," I said. The words were barely audible; I spoke physically and the gas from the canister was still on my throat. "I''ll get you another one."

    "Naw," said Caleb. "Don''t. I''ll give you another one. Mine."

    I didn''t want another jacket. I wanted the warm fluffy things that made up half my family. I wanted not to be in a world where the young were manipulated, or murdered for refusing to be manipulated. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to lie down. I thought about the experiments, and then I started remembering Nightingale. I wished that the jump off Century Spire killed me; that the Experiment took my life.

    Caleb yelled at me. "Chris!" His voice was heated, fuming. Something enraged was taking over the sound of what he normally always sounded like when he talked to me. I didn''t realize his hands were on my shoulders and shaking me until he spoke the next words. "Don''t think like that!"

    I double-flipped backwards without the triple spin, whipping back on the first landing, taking the perpetrator''s kunai-like dagger out of my black jeans'' back pocket and arming myself as I did on the second.

    I looked Caleb in the eye- the exact same way I did on my last night with the unnamed man from the Lowdown, the unnamed evil creature that used me as nothing but a source of income for his abuse chain.

    "Hands off, mind off," I said, my voice still sounding like broken rocks scraping sandpaper. "I have an SRA I have to fight in."

    I sounded like a subtly croaking marshmallow- but behind it, now a growl instead of a faint whimper.

    I flexed my fingers and wrists; glanced over at the blood on them- some of it fresh, blood which the rain hadn''t managed to wash away at all. There were cuts on the sides of my face and shoulders from smashing through walls and through glass. I was almost fascinated- earlier on the same day, they were still some shade reminiscent of red; now everything was gray.

    I cleared my throat, then continued.

    "An SRA I have to fight in injured," I said, "and I''d really like to regain color vision before then."

    --

    James''s voice boomed through the announcer speakers, which were embedded in the walls of the seemingly boundless arena.

    "The champions are decided when all Fasci Littori are stolen from one Ground of Territory..." He was on an elevated seat, in an elevated platform, in a glass box that overlooked the huge room designated for SRAs- the Coliseum. "...or one party surrenders, or is unable to continue." I watched him smile on the screens above us. His voice was as pleasant and light as it was the day he gave me that first box of antidote vials for Malcolm''s Vystir poisoning; the day Danny wasn''t my name anymore. "As most of you were informed through the agency''s server message, this Srazhenye will be two-versus-two." It was difficult to hear James over the roar of the crowd. I knew these people; did they have nowhere to go on Sunday? "Introducing the blue corner: Elyza Cobb!"

    There were cheers from the laboratory people.

    "Christopher Midnight!"

    Enormous applause- there was always enormous applause and loud cheering whenever my name was announced. People were excited to see me in pain, I guessed.

    "Introducing the red corner: Wyatt Shafer!" said James, who let people cheer before he said "Belinda Klein!" which got no response from the audience. The only sound was me, clapping for her and saying, "Go, Belinda!" And then I coughed because there was gas on my throat.

    I didn''t plan to win through points.

    I dashed into the ring, fast, the moment the transparent wall in front of me lifted and retracted upwards. I still wasn''t breathing normally. My head still ached. My eyes were still watering. I could''ve sworn I still felt the broken piece of bone and torn ligaments. I still felt like a torture victim- though that could''ve just been the rest of my memories.

    And I rasped way too much when I spoke.

    "What?!" shouted Cobb.

    "I said keep them away from the rings," I responded, but telepathically this time.

    "You don''t feel like your normal self," Elyza replied through the telepathic connection.

    "Define ''normal,''" I said.

    I felt the smile in her telepathic energy. "Normal," she said. "A word created by geniuses for something that doesn''t exist."

    --

    The arena was mostly empty space. I never thought about how that worked in my favor before that SRA.

    I picked up speed, into a roundoff to a back with a half, and remained in flight.

    I saw Shafer, standing in the center of the line that ended our Ground of Territory and started theirs, and the other way around.

    Wyatt Shafer.

    Tentacles. He had ten of them. Ridiculously long, horrendously dark purple, slimy things that would come out of his back- somewhere between his shoulder blades- that could grab you and slam you or choke you, or choke you and then slam you and then steal your locker keys. He did that to me, once. And then he apologized.

    There was good in him, and of course I always saw it; there is good in everything, and in everyone- but I could not feel it at that moment. I knew there was good and that good things existed; I could not feel any of the good.

    I flipped, twisted, and spun- the more I did these things, the faster I cut through the air. My current target was a Mr. Wyatt Shafer, and I did not want to make this match last.

    I wasn''t going to give anyone a show. I didn''t care that Scott and Kaylee were in the audience- Henry was too hungover to come to the Webwork, and Caleb knew I didn''t want him anywhere near me at the time- or even that the rest of the Union of Stars'' Overwoods division was watching. I had only one objective.

    The Coliseum was one of the many floors of the Webwork, and as usual kept secret from the rest of The Overwoods. It looked exactly like what a place called the Coliseum would look like: pillars, stone, flat ground. But that was only because James didn''t activate any of the hundreds of simulated training environments. He had the option to do this, and the arena was huge.

    I remember walking into the Webwork that day. Using my card to access the elevators to the 47th floor, walking out the elevator doors, walking up the stairs that led to the arena. Not without first breaking down in a restroom and crying. I put on my own black jacket that fit me much more accurately than Caleb''s, and walked into the enormous space- the space now full of workmates and acquaintances; full of people watching every move. I remember Scott put his hand on my back as a sign of reassurance, and Kaylee hugged me. They wished me luck and I said nothing.

    --

    No visibility on Belinda Klein, at least not yet.

    "Do you see her?" I said to Elsie, telepathically.

    "No, I''m holding point where our Fasci Littori are and I see no movement."

    "Keep your ears peeled, Elsie."

    "I know. She might be behi-"

    The telepathic connection broke for a split second.

    "All right, she''s got me," said Elsie.

    "Do you need-"

    "No, I can handle her." I felt the grit, the fight in her telepathic energy. "Don''t look back, Midnight."

    Elyza Cobb.

    In addition to an extraordinary IQ and being a telepath, she had other abilities: she manipulated water and ice, and could sense nearby bodies of water, and could also sense nearby sources of lower temperatures- without having to see them; without any tools. I called her Liquid Nitrogen.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Belinda Klein, on the other hand, had an ability even I had never seen, despite all of my messed up experiences back at the Lowdown and other scary places, and Experiment Nightingale: her tattoos came to life. Anything she had a tattoo of, beware of it.

    I focused on Wyatt.

    "Don''t wanna fight you, Midnight!"

    I skidded to a stop after letting my flight and distance go, tumbling forward until finally stepping out of a front handspring and walking. "What?" I said telepathically. "Wyatt? You''re a telepath?"

    "You haven''t been paying attention."

    "You do interrogations. It''s not my business."

    "You think they''d give interrogations to a non-telepath?"

    "I don''t know!" I replied. "I mean, they kill children! Does anything make any sense to you?"

    His eyes met mine, the tentacles on his back like a mutated animal''s dark wings, wings that he constantly kept moving as long as they were out in the open.

    I continued. "Don''t wanna fight, you say but the tentacles are out. Is it predictable monster hour?"

    Then he grabbed me with one of his tentacles- it was that quick. He was making a mistake. The tentacle was around my left arm and he dragged me across the ground, past fallen pillars and blocks of stone, towards him. It was almost pulling my arm from its socket, but somehow I knew he''d do this.

    I was still ten feet away when he yelled, "I''m trying to be nice to you! I always ha-"

    I was in front of him and this was the mistake. One of my abilities: if I struck someone, and I chose to do it, there would be two results from the hit. One was the impact from the actual strike. The second was a severe burning sensation- not an actual burn, not a mark left externally on anyone''s skin that anyone could see, but a lingering agony, a discomfort that caused people to be impaired and incapacitated. As far as I knew, I only had this ability after Experiment Nightingale. So, in some way, Nightingale gave me an ability that protected me- something I needed badly, especially at eleven years old, and especially if I was somewhere at "home" at the Lowdown, with the man that prostituted me. It didn''t take long to finally get out of there.

    Nightingale damaged me, yet it seemingly gave me a gift... assuming the superpower was really a result of it. My brain could never figure it out.

    A strike of the palm, hard, between his eyes so I wouldn''t break his nose, and he let me go, and then a switch step forward to an even harder kick to his forehead, so I wouldn''t break his jaw or his chin.

    I could almost hear the burning feeling inside him. I felt no guilt.

    "Fuck!" He groaned and moaned and grunted and winced on the ground in front of me. He was in pain and I could see it, anyone could. The deafening roar of the crowd was almost as abstruse to me as the fact that someone was willing to kill animals and people to get what they thought they wanted. Almost, but not quite. "Chris!" he was whimpering now, something I had never ever heard from him before. "Fuck!" he repeated. He made guttural pain noises from somewhere in the back of his throat. "I was... I was going to let you win!"

    I turned to walk away.

    "I mean it!" he said.

    The anger I felt gave full resonance to my voice, like it came back to me in that one instant. "Explain the tentacles."

    He groaned, his face in his hands, trying to soothe a pain that was located nowhere on his skin, one he wanted so badly to tear out, but couldn''t. "I needed... Belinda to believe I was on her side and fighting. So she wouldn''t be suspicious." He groaned in pain again, and this time it sounded like some kind of animal sound. "So... so she wouldn''t tell James. Call the fight off."

    From a distance I saw Elyza and Belinda in what to me looked like an enthralling, almost spellbinding brawl.

    I looked back at Wyatt. "I''m supposed to believe you?"

    "I''m telling you the truth."

    "You stole my locker keys. You''re sick. Don''t pretend you don''t remember it."

    "I said I was sorry. You knew I was. We''ve... gotten better."

    The tremor in his voice broke whatever defense I had on me. "I need to be on this case," I said. "I need to be on this case, without losing my job."

    "I know," he said, barely able to speak evenly. He forced his eyes open to look at me. They were bloodshot already. "Chris," he pleaded. "Can you...?" he trailed off and gritted his teeth.

    Did I really inflict that much pain?

    "I will," I said. "After I win."

    I had one objective.

    "Chris," he said. "Just... a little."

    "No!"

    "Please."

    I took his hand and locked my fingers between his. His dark tentacles slipped back into wherever they went, in his back. He was big, fairly muscular. As far as I could tell, he wasn''t afraid to hurt people. Those were people I felt I understood in some capacity, yet also didn''t understand.

    Just when the color was starting to finally return to my vision, I let my eyes turn gray and counted to sixty. A snake was wrapped around Elsie''s throat; she was on the ground and defending herself from further harm by surrounding herself with spikes of ice that protruded long and sharp off the ground, diagonally and pointed in Klein''s direction. I looked from the screens above us, the ones that captured all that took place, to James in his glass box, to the roaring crowds around us, to where Scott was. He was easy to make out. He was holding Kaylee''s hand, his eyes fixed on mine. Kaylee was on her feet beside him, cheering loudly for both me and Elyza. In her free hand she held up a cardboard sign. "WIN AND WE GET ICE CREAM," it read.

    "Take slow, deep breaths. Kinda like waves on the ocean," I told Wyatt. I guess I felt some kind of guilt- not too much. I remembered other SRAs Wyatt was in. He won almost all of them, the tentacles combined with his brute force a threat as large as he was. I sighed. "You''re a strong man and you know it," I said. "You got this."

    Or he acted like one, anyway. Around me at least. I omitted saying the part where I thought he was a total asshole almost all the time, if not all the time, period.

    He slowed his breathing.

    "No stronger a man than you are," he said, with the hint of a smile and a wink.

    I almost puked.

    "Shut the fuck up."

    I let go, took a moment to position my feet, and pushed off. It took a little more energy and power, than it did without a run or roundoff or handspring or all three. I wanted this to be done- any moment I spent without information was a moment I spent unable to stop this murderer. A child could die. There were enough unprotected innocent people; there was enough evil in the Overwoods. In the world even, perhaps. I wouldn''t know.

    "It''s nice seeing you, Belinda!" I said as I hovered and spun in the air above her. I landed quickly and without any dissent from the dust on the ground, about twelve feet beside both her and the spikes of ice, intentionally. "If you make me do it I''ll push you straight into that. Surrender, now."

    Belinda Klein glared at me. "Why don''t you try it?"

    "Why don''t you come here and make me?"

    From the corner of my eyes I saw Elyza stab the snake with one of her ice spears, again and again without finesse, until it loosened its grip on her neck.

    She walked toward me. Vines, with a few roses and thousands of deadly thorns materialized behind her as she did, following her, a dozen times the size of the actual tattoos.

    And then a tiger launched from her right leg and bounded straight at me. For just a moment, I wore a small and subtle smile on my face; probably just enough for the crowds to make out the dimples on my cheeks.

    Most tigers sprinted at approximately fifty to sixty-five miles per hour, if they were hunting fast prey. This was going to be easy.

    "Cobb, now!" I yelled, just as the snake around Elyza''s neck died and turned to dust, and just as I moved my right shoulder and head and neck back and toward my left side. I stepped back with my right foot. Principles of twisting: wrap, pull, stay tight for maximum spin. This was going to be both a twist and a thrust with the arms.

    The adorable fluffy tiger gave me a hug and tried to bite me to show its affection, but I grabbed both its left legs and spun- the tiger flew towards Belinda, who instinctively stepped backward. But one step behind her was a curtain rod of ice, horizontal, parallel to her hips. She inadvertently flipped backward and onto her hands as her fluffy adorable pet tiger landed on top of her, squishing her and her vines and roses and thorns, making the animal cry out in some kind of roar of discomfort.

    Elyza hastily contained both the tiger and Belinda in a cage of ice, tiny droplets and vapor coming off of the bars. Elyza smiled at me, her blond hair and blue eyes shining in the daylight from the large glass windows and the glass ceiling above us, above James''s platform. For a few seconds as I looked at her I wondered if I really was even gay anymore.

    "We make a pretty good team," she said to me, raising her hand for a high-five.

    "That," I said. "I will agree with, Liquid Nitrogen." I met her hand with mine, and then held it for a while, just because I wanted to. I was smiling; it was my cheery smile, letting the cameras and the people in on my biggest insecurity- my imperfect teeth, and of course the dimples that came with any smile of mine.

    --

    Inside the ice cage, Belinda tumbled down from on her hands and head and onto her stomach.

    "Congratulations, Belinda!" I said, clasping my hands and jumping up and down. "Elyza and I kinda just taught you a back handspring! We can do them together now on weekends for exercise if you want."

    She looked up and gave us both the evil eye.

    "This match isn''t over yet!" she screamed at us. There were boos from the audience.

    "Can you surrender?" I said. "I sucked a dick for you, just like you told me to."

    Elyza burst out laughing.

    "Or," Elyza said, before bursting out in laughter again and then composing herself, "Chris can just kick you in your sad and probably tattooed buttocks."

    I laughed because the word "buttocks" was funny to me.

    Belinda glared at us.

    "I''ll go get Shafer. You make your decision here." I turned to hop back over to where Wyatt was.

    Just as I positioned to start a vault run, I heard the click and the beep that indicated someone had turned off one of the trackers we had on each of our arms- the combination of sounds that incidated someone had thrown in a surrender.

    "I hope you have fun at that hotel, Midnight," said Belinda in what by far was the most threatening voice she ever used on me. She sometimes used it with James.

    "If you''re concerned about my safety," I said, "I won''t stop you from coming along with. We can use a smart person."

    "Let me out of the cage," Belind muttered, barely audible. "Icicle Bitch."

    I looked at Elyza and raised my eyebrows.

    She smiled back. I remember thinking I might marry her if I wasn''t gay.

    "Yes, Queen Belinda," she replied, an edge of contempt to her voice; a tone of disgust and antipathy. "Unintelligent asshat of the fugly, cheap pink hair dye, and dollar store makeup, bomb sniffer and limping swamp donkey."

    An orange rose, its stem cut clean of any thorns, hit me in the face- a gift from an admirer in the audience, from somewhere in the crowd.

    Surely it wasn''t for me...?

    I flinched, surprised, and then I caught it with my torso and both my hands. I gave it to Elyza.

    I personally didn''t agree too much with the "unintelligent" part of her scornful and very snide comments, but I supposed... I somewhat agreed with the rest of it.

    Elsie gave the rose a sniff and waved to the crowd- which was still cheering madly. She gave Belinda Klein some kind of look; a vicious leer, eyes almost malicious behind her aquamarine glasses which she had strapped on for the SRA fight.

    I looked up, and immediately noticed that James Tobler, head of the Union of Stars'' Overwoods division, had his eyes locked on me. As our eyes met, he gave me a smile that felt... almost genuine; maybe sweet- but there was something about it that bothered me. I remembered Skittles and Crayon and didn''t smile back, and then turned my attention instead to the ice cage which my partner still hadn''t unfrozen.

    Elyza remained there glowering at Klein a moment longer before turning to walk away. Wyatt Shafer''s eyes were watery and red, he limped his way slowly toward us from the other half of the arena- steering himself toward us with the support of two of his inordinately strong, dark, creepy purple tentacles.

    Cobb glanced back at Belinda, as she took the light blue strap off from her glasses.

    "By the way, Belinda!" she hollered, over her shoulder from where she stood. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her finger. "One more thing. Fuck an unmarried man next time."

    --

    Kaylee ran over to me as I held Wyatt''s hand with both of mine.

    Wyatt was sitting on the floor of the arena. I still didn''t believe I inflicted that much pain. I didn''t feel much... even as I used my pain steal on him. Did he?

    "That was amazing!" Kaylee screeched.

    "It had to be done," I replied.

    "Just let me surrender next time," Wyatt said.

    Kaylee sat next to me on the floor, tucking her skirt and then brushing the dust off her black Civil War Era Ladies'' button boots. She scowled at Wyatt.

    "I don''t even know why he''s painstealing you," she said. "Apart from he''s nice. You know you don''t deserve it."

    "It''s fine," I said.

    And telepathically to Kayles I said, "You''re right. No, he doesn''t."

    I remembered when he stole my locker keys, or my lunch money. And he was twenty! Can you imagine being so miserable you have to do that to people? Can you imagine picking on someone you barely know and younger than you- being an asshole at all?

    Well, he SAID he was twenty.

    Guess what: he really wasn''t.

    To me it was extra strange- because if Wyatt wasn''t being totally horrible to me, he was extra nice. No, not like Kaylee or Caleb were nice to me; he was extra sweet and companionable. To me it made no sense. That was part of the reason why I rejected most offers to be an interrogator- sure, maybe people thought I read criminals or threats or psychos well, because of my experience. But that would have meant hours alone in a room, with Shafer and a sociopath.

    ...so basically with two sociopaths.

    For a while the three of us sat there- me letting my eyes turn gray as the superpower use took color off my vision- all of us watching the crowds wave at us, at me, and then smile as I waved back, as they left the arena.

    I remembered Skittles and Crayon again. Crayon would lick my face if he were here and Kaylee would give Skittles something totally random, like a lima bean or a cauliflower.

    "Your dad went home to check on Henry?" I said.

    "No," Kaylee said. "He went to the office."

    "There''s a million offices."

    Kaylee laughed. "His."

    "So where do we go for ice cream?" I said.

    "Pacifico?" said Kaylee.

    "Ice cream sounds so good right now," Wyatt said. Even then he sounded like he was still in pain. "You have no idea."

    I let a few seconds pass, watching the faraway T-shirts of the audience members disperse and move toward the exits.

    Color was slowly coming back to me.

    "Join us," I said. "And..." I smiled. "I''ve made a decision; you guys get to be in on it."

    Kaylee grinned as she and Wyatt glanced in my direction. Wyatt tried to smile at me but it looked like a grimace.

    "I''m not waiting for ''Monday,''" I said.

    Even thinking about any hotels caused me flashbacks- anything with a bedroom and where one might be alone with someone else.

    ...Or multiple someone else-s.

    "I''m not waiting for tomorrow. I''m investigating the hotel tonight-" I took Crayon''s old collar from where it was in my pocket and ran my thumb over the shiny, golden bone-shaped tag that still had his name on it. "And you guys..." I looked up again to the booth, the glass platform of the microphone, desks, screens and the chair where James sat- to make sure he wasn''t there anymore. "...are going to come with me."

    --

 --XVIII--

    --XVIII--

    ...is there a difference, between "wouldn''t" or "couldn''t?"

    He was in a black coat, a tuxedo, I think they called it. The man was across from me as I sat on the bed reading my only copy of the Bible. I wanted more books, but couldn''t afford them. The only cloth on my body was half the bed sheet.

    The man took his watch from the drawer and looked back at me. It was maybe the prettiest, shiniest thing I had ever seen then, his watch. Gold and silver, and shining things, I thought it was made of. He smiled at me.

    "You don''t want me to go," he said. "Do you?"

    I looked at the man- he was somewhere in his thirties, maybe early forties? His hair was a mix of blond and some gray.

    "You''re the one that... doesn''t make things hurt too badly," I said. I surveyed his eyes, any nuances in their movement or any movement of his body that was out of his ordinary behavior. It was something I knew to do, from early. How early, I don''t remember. "So I guess not."

    I was always honest with these people. Even the ones that hurt me the most. I was eleven.

    "Do you have kids?" I asked.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    He looked at me.

    "Why do you ask?" he said.

    I shook my head. "I don''t know. Curious, I guess."

    The man put a stack of paper bills on top of a table beside the bed.

    "I''m not supposed to take gifts," I said.

    "You don''t have to tell anyone," he replied, discreetly. Hushed. "Get yourself something nice. Something new to read. A pair of shoes, something."

    "I can''t take it," I said. I tried hard to disguise the disappointment I felt but couldn''t. "There''s a camera."

    The man pulled on his pants, buckled on his belt. From his wallet he took what looked like a card. He placed it on the bed, in front of me. I took one look at it.

    "I know what the Overwoods looks like," I said.

    "Look closer."

    It was a map I thought I''d seen before, marking where the mines were, riddled with the lines that divided the Vicinities. But there were strange symbols on it, symbols that I didn''t understand.

    "What is it?" I asked. "What are these... markers? What do they mean?"

    I took my stuffed husky, which was on the pillows, and hugged it. It was the other valuable thing that I had.

    "Take the money," the man said. "And get out of here." I think maybe I gave him some sort of confused look, because then he said: "You can. Now."

    "I..." I said. "I don''t get it. I''m not sure I believe this."

    "I know you don''t," he replied. "The man who found you at Century-"

    "How do you know about that?" I said.

    "Questions later," he said. I remember feeling more than just confused. There was consternation, concern in his voice; it was on his face. And even to me, it seemed genuine. I was ready to run, from whatever this was. "You''ll find that man at The Port, and you''ll be safe there. You''ll be old enough soon that you won''t be something of special interest here. I know someone that can help you."

    "If you cared about me at all then why do you even keep coming here?" I said.

    "I would have stopped," he told me. I thought there were tears in his eyes, for just a flash of a second. "I couldn''t."

 --XIX--

    --XIX--

    "They just love killing each other."

    Caleb looked at me, the steam from the coffee cup he held obscuring Wyatt''s face.

    "What?" Kaylee''s voice barely penetrated the film of disgust in my head; the revulsion at the lunacy of those that find entertainment, in the suffering of others- and think only of themselves. "Who?"

    I didn''t even look up from the paper.

    "I don''t need to answer that," I said. "You read my mind all the time." Slowly, one page at a time, I tore the newspaper- each paragraph a fatality of paper just like the words printed on them. The sound of the ripping was almost enough to satisfy me. "Did you get that from one of the dads or from your brother?"

    "What''s with the attitude?" said Caleb.

    "I thought you didn''t mind." Kaylee pushed a paper cup of strawberry ice cream toward me. "And your mind is a nice place."

    "Ha-ha," I said. "So funny."

    "She means it," said Caleb.

    "I''m confused." It was about an hour after the SRA and I was really feeling the ligaments in my left forearm and wrist complaining; it felt like my left hand was on fire. It wasn''t a new feeling, though. "We have a killer to catch and all you can think of is making fun of me."

    "They''re not."

    We all turned to Wyatt. It was the first thing he said since we got here.

    He shrugged. "Your mind is a nice place."

    Excuse me?

    I was ready to jump away.

    "He wouldn''t know that!" interjected Kaylee. She wore a self-created necklace, one that was made of one of my favorite things: sunflowers. She twirled her fingers around them, and they almost glowed in the dark. "He won''t believe us."

    I checked to see if my left hand was bleeding and if there were fractured bone pieces sticking out of the skin.

    Nope not right now

    "So he really never reads people''s minds?" said Wyatt. I glanced over at him. His eyes shifted from Kaylee and back to me. "Sheesh." He locked his black-hole eyes on mine. "Why did they ever consider you for working the interrogatio-"

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    Yes, yes. Orbiplosions. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

    Why they ever considered me for the what?

    Nope

    Let''s not even talk about that.

    Or I don''t know. I had no idea. I didn''t ask for any specific department to work in. I never did. Unless of course you count my vehement refusal to have anything to do with further experiments.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    I HATE THAT WORD

    "What happened to me isn''t a secret to you guys," I interrupted. "Let''s move on. And it''s not like I''m the only one with seriously messed up memories."

    "It''s such a miserable WASTE OF TELEPATHY!" Wyatt said. "You never use it!"

    "EFF YOU POLITELY GO JUMP ON A JELLYFISH," I said exclusively to Wyatt via telepathy.

    He smiled at me. I didn''t know why.

    Also, miserable my butt, coming from the most miserable person alive second only to James Tobler.

    And me.

    And Kaylee.

    The three of us shared that top spot.

    I dropped my gaze to the torn pieces of paper on the tablecloth. Stories of planes dropping bombs, a tank crushing cars with families of innocent people in them, images of dead bodies. Shootings. Stories of more people killed, raped, manipulated.

    All completely pointless.

    "Memories aren''t the only thing you are, Chris." Caleb put the coffee cup down, beside the ice cream. Deliberately on top of the torn sheets, so I couldn''t see all the words anymore.

    I looked up at him.

    "I was reading that," I said.

    Because I bothered to read things that were torn apart.

    "You''re a lot more than that," he said. "Anyone can see that."

    I stared at an ornate streetlight across the street, one that I used to draw cartoon cows on, using chalk that I stole from my primary abuser''s unlocked closet. I learned how to draw cartoon cows from the soggy cereal boxes I''d found, on the floor of the same abandoned building where I first started teaching myself gymnastics. I used the same chalk to maintain friction on my palms and fingers, too. And I remembered how, sometimes, it felt almost like that chalk was magical; almost like the fine white powder on my hands helped me jump higher; rebound harder; calculate my distance faster.

    At least, I think it was chalk...

    I turned my attention back to Caleb.

    Anyone can see?

    His eyes and his voice: the only two things on a person that were powerful enough to somehow captivate me.

    Anyone can see what?

    Anyone could see that a child was murdered.

    Anyone could see that I didn''t care about myself.

    Maybe that was a problem.

    I watched as a white hedgehog the size of a teacup scampered toward me from the sidewalk. It placed a peanut on my shoe.

    Yay, peanut, happy

    I wondered where it got one. The nearest Baker Joe''s was a half-mile away, to my knowledge.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I picked up the peanut. And also the hedgehog.

    I named it Peanut.

    "I''m sorry," I said to nobody in particular. "I didn''t mean to be rude."

    I put the hedgehog down.

    Caleb laughed. It was the familiar sound I didn''t know I craved, one that always took me back to the present. Suddenly, I wasn''t surrounded by monsters. Kaylee was here and she was alive and she was with me.

    So was Wyatt, but eff that politely.

    And... Caleb was here.

    Somehow, even for a moment, I could believe there were a few good people again.

    I smiled. "What''s so funny?"

    No one had to answer me: I was stupid, and it was funny that I was stupid. That was the only possibility. I took the ice cream cup.

    "We''ll need someone fast on the team," I said. "This might be as dangerous as last time."

    "Faster than you?" Connor''s voice. CONNOR''S VOICE. I didn''t bother to look around.

    "Meadows," I said.

    "Midnight," he replied.

    "What are you doing here?" said Caleb.

    "Y''all are planning a thing and I want in," said Connor. He sat down next to me.

    Where did he even come from?

    "It''s Sunday," I said. "Go..."

    I fumbled.

    Go somewhere. Anywhere.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Go be at home," I said. "You know. With the wife."

    Assuming she was there.

    "As I''m sure you''ve gathered," said Connor, "We don''t exactly have a functional relationship."

    Why was that not a suprise?

    "I don''t read minds," I said.

    "Well, he doesn''t have kids so you have nothing to feel too awful about, Chris!" said Kaylee. As with ninety-percent of the time she knew what I was thinking, of course; it saved us time. "He could be a good teammate here."

    "Can we get Sam to come with us?" I said.

    "Chaquille''s sister?"

    "Get her to come with us, Kayles."

    "I..." she said. "I''ll try."

    "Thanks," I said. I got up.

    Caleb laid a hand on my shoulder.

    "I''ll meet you guys outside the Lowdown. Don''t worry about me."

    "And where are you going?" said Caleb.

    I looked at everyone.

    "You already know," I whispered.

    "We still wanna hear it," said Connor. His blue-and-auburn hair moved with the wind, pointing southwest. Almost the same exact direction in which I was about to start flying. "You know. Talk."

    I shook my head, gave them a small smile, and turned away.

    I had to go bury the dogs.

 --XX--

    --XX--

    "You wanted me to pretend, right?"

    The shovels leaned against a tree trunk; the afternoon was beautiful- beautiful beyond any description I could have possibly provided; more beautiful than anything I could have ever written on paper. Shafts of sunlight, a strange combination of pink and orange, penetrated through in between the leaves, branches, and twigs above us.

    Malcolm''s Vystir poisoning wasn''t affecting or disabling any of his abilities that day. The fire he started was a few feet to my left. Whether there was any warmth from it, I''ll never know.

    He stood beside me to my right. The large red mantle he always wore glowed, its red a deeper shade in the firelight. He pressed the earth flat, even, with his boot. It was the color of dark chocolate and the dirt beneath it only a shade lighter. He turned to me.

    "Pretend what?" he said.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "Flashback. Don''t mind me."

    "Pretend what?" he insisted, his voice the deep and gruff growl I had grown accustomed to in the years I had spent living together with him.

    "Pretend that I was fine," I muttered, softer than softly. "Pretend that I liked it. It wasn''t directed at you."

    It was silent in the glade, save for some crickets and cicadas in the distance.

    "And I don''t know," I continued. "Maybe I did like it. I don''t even know."

    "You''re not there anymore, Chris."

    "Easy to say."

    He and I stood in a spot in the forest between The Port and the Everglades; behind Vicinity Two. I had been there before.

    Before I knew anything near me had shifted, I was in his arms, the one place I felt as close to validated, as close to wanted, as close to loved as I felt I could possibly ever feel.

    Images flashed in my head and I burned them; I burned them like Malcolm could burn anything on a good day when his Vystir poisoning wasn''t eviscerating him.

    Eviscerating him like my memories do.

    Every day.

    I was a torn pile of shreds of a broken thing. How I walked around anywhere, I''ll never know.

    "Can you tell me how you put up with me?" I said.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    "What do you mean?" said Malcolm.

    Maybe it was my fault. Maybe, if I had gotten the flash drive sooner, gotten to James sooner, delivered things faster, maybe it wouldn''t be as bad. He could be better. Maybe if he never rescued me from being used like a toy for money, he would be fine. Maybe I was just... a bag. That people had to carry.

    The one thing I had spent my entire life trying not to be.

    "I mean," I replied, "How do you believe that there''s anything about me that is worth loving? What about me was worth saving?"

    Why was I so lucky? Why did people like me, why did anyone care; why were people helping me? It was the Overwoods. Abuse was everywhere, crime, evil, awful ugly detestable things were everywhere.

    I was just one of them. It made no sense.

    Malcolm pulled back to look at me. His eyes almost set me on fire, or maybe he just knew how much I was hurting and decided to kill me right then and there using fire, to end it for me. To save me from being hurt and lied to and possessed by scum again.

    "Everything," he said.

    Would Marie have agreed with him? What would Marie say? Maybe I could have saved Marie. Maybe I just didn''t try hard enough; maybe I just wasn''t good enough or smart enough or fast enough.

    Why was I the one still alive?

    Maybe I could have saved her.

    Maybe I could have saved her, and the other girl, too, the one murdered- had I found whoever the killer was.

    Or saved Crayon or Skittles.

    It was the one thing- the one thing that kept me from pulling the trigger when my hands were on the gun, the gun I was going to use three days before my twelfth birthday.

    I''m gonna kill me before you do.

    The words in my mind; the words I wrote on paper.

    It didn''t end then, because, I thought I could help- I thought I could help and make a difference; I wasn''t the only one who suffered and I thought, maybe, I could help someone else. Maybe.

    And that couldn''t happen- wouldn''t happen, if I pulled that trigger.

    Somebody else did but they missed.

    "Hey." Malcolm was almost forgotten, though he was directly in front of me. "Did you hear me?"

    I said nothing.

    The sunlight turned into shadows in my mind, shadows that couldn''t conceal the ropes, the smoke, the brittle skeleton between innocence and hate, between hunger and submission, between forced-to-survive and drugged-to-near-death, the skeleton that was shattered in front of me.

    Too many times.

    "Everything about you," he insisted, "is so much more than beyond worth saving."

    I took a step back. My heart was beating so hard that I swore Crayon and Skittles could hear it pounding from six feet under the ground- where they were now buried- or even from heaven; from wherever they now were.

    They were gone and I didn''t save them, I stayed alive to do one thing and I couldn''t do even that.

    Malcolm almost gnarled at me.

    "Don''t you even think about going anywhere-"

    "I love you," I interrupted rudely. "Just know... that I thank you, for everything."

    He spoke but I couldn''t hear him.

    I continued.

    "I never had a family but you. I love everything you are."

    I tried to quickly blink away all the shadows. It didn''t work- they didn''t go anywhere.

    "I can''t be here right now. I''m sorry."

    My feet took off and I was en route to the Lowdown.

    Spinning through the air, I thought I heard Malcolm call my name from far below, from where I took off. Or maybe it was one of the monsters, the evil people in the shadows. The ones that find entertainment in the suffering of a child.

    I stayed alive, to do one thing. I''ve been only a failure- and only a failure- since I chose not to pull that trigger.

    I was going to end this multi-murderer''s streak, here, now, or I wasn''t going to keep going.

 --XXI--

    --XXI--

    The orange-pink sunlight glowed all around me as I closed my eyes.

    Dictations only last for so long.

    I remembered reading the sheet of paper, still spinning, still flying over toward the Lowdown.

    "By the time you read this, you''ll either have discovered your powers or this paper will be on top of your dead body. I''ll guess you''re alive because you get everything you want and my attempt to kill you probably didn''t work.

    I just want you to know you''re worthless.

    That you''re pitiful, that everything you do is a mistake.

    People will know you and remember you. And they will say good things about you.

    I''ll make sure you don''t hear them. You''ll hear only me. You will believe only what I said about you then, and what I think about you now.

    Nothing you do is right.

    Nothing.

    I know this, because I controlled you then

    And

    I

    Control

    You

    Now.

    I AM THE POWERFUL ONE

    NOT YOU"

    I think I was about fifteen when I got that letter.

    Having represented law enforcement and the US, and having been both in the Lowdown, and also then out of the Lowdown, threats were now pretty old.

    I still gave them all equal weight.

    I opened my eyes and looked around me. Not too far away I could see the Century Spire Tower; the other towers around it all fallen and crumbled in assorted heaps of silver and black. In a different direction, the Everglades. In another direction, and just barely, because of the distance, The Port.

    I used to always wonder why there were the ones that like to destroy innocent people and destroy beautiful things. Why there were the ones that love to harm anyone around them so much.

    I still wondered that at eighteen, but less. Because at that point I had seen and I had learned, at least a thousand different times, that what goes around comes back around.

    A voice came through in my mind.

    "You''re really not slowing down."

    "I never slow down for anyone, Kayles." I surveyed the roads and the old rivers of dirty water, now just trenches of soil and chopped-off branches and dead leaves- barely a habitat for even the squirrels. I planted some sunflowers there once; a typhoon killed all of them. "Ever. You got Sam to come with?"

    "I''m here!" Another voice- Sam''s.

    I smiled.

    "Thank God," I said.

    "Well, you certainly sound thrilled," said Sam.

    "He''s just glad to have someone else who understands going fast," Kaylee babbled.

    A flash of lightning- far to the east where I had come from. I glanced in that direction for a moment, and then after about twelve seconds, thunder. It shook even the air, hard, like an earthquake.

    "Jesus!" Sam sneered. Her voice hardened as she spoke. "Is there a storm coming?"

    Sam Shilberg and her brother were both adopted; they had virtually no similarities. Sam was a telepath and as fast as I was, minus all the flying.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "The plants say yes," replied Kaylee.

    "They know these things?" I said.

    "Chaquille said if I dye my hair black and braid it and take painkillers I''ll be a drug addict," Sam rambled.

    I didn''t even think. "That''s his opinion."

    "He''s projecting!" Kaylee laughed. "It''s what some people do. You don''t need to read minds to know that."

    I deposited myself on an abandoned scrapyard north of the Lowdown, first tumbling forwards, and then sideways, and finally backwards to slow down. Caleb was already there waiting.

    The air smelled like rusty metal and rainwater mixed with ocean salt after a hot day. It smelled like what a desert might smell like, if a desert was near the equator where there used to be jungles and if it was where monsoons blew. I could almost taste the seawater in the air, as I slowed my breathing and listened to the chirping of tropical insects. It was 6:45 PM, an hour and fifteen minutes before the time at which we all agreed to convene.

    I glanced up at the sky above us; the orange glow had shifted subtly to red, and was now slowly turning a deep shade of violet. Clouds obscured some of the light from the star that burned far away, as it moved away even farther.

    I was the heavy heart that flew. The one that still smiled at people.

    I said a prayer in my mind and wished Crayon was here.

    "And you still don''t believe your mind is a beautiful place," he told me.

    He had a voice that gasconaded. It was almost condescending. Almost dictatorial. All I knew was that I''d heard that enough- much more than enough- in eighteen years. Much more than enough already in my first ten.

    The way he spoke this last statement was exactly that.

    "You''re about to turn away," Caleb emphasized. "Don''t."

    Caleb Samuel Davenport, a man much larger than I was, a telepath and a technopath and one of the only steady things I had known. To me he was like a fire that glowed in a living room fireplace. The kind of thing your pet dogs or cats would go sit beside. To me he was that place where you''d be if you wanted marshmallows on a stick, if you wanted to tell your elementary school friends stories around a campfire and laugh until you fell asleep in the morning at 5 AM.

    I was shutting people out of my head- something I rarely ever did. If Kaylee or Sam wanted to continue the conversation with me, they''d have to do it another time.

    He frowned.

    "You''ve never done that before," probed Caleb. "Is it something I did?"

    His eyes were like glittering silver gems. It was evening and he usually shaved in the early mornings; at this time the hair on his face was more than just light 5 o''clock shadow.

    "JOHNSON JUNK YARD," read a broken-down sign above me and to my left. "WHERE TRASH AND JUNK BELONG, WHERE USELESS THINGS ARE APPRECIATED."

    It made me smile; I belonged here and I was appreciated here.

    Caleb took both my hands and pulled me to him.

    Because of the physical size difference any embraces between me and him were mostly him with his arms around me and me with my arms folded rather awkwardly in front of me, my hands usually clasped fists on his chest; my face turned to one side, usually the left.

    I closed my eyes.

    "Remember when you said I was the only thing," insisted Caleb, "the only thing you believed would never hurt you?"

    I did say that, once, five hundred years ago.

    Probably under duress or something.

    I held my breath.

    His voice dropped to a whisper. "Have I ruined that?"

    I inhaled. He smelled like soap and brand new jeans from the store and laundry detergent and like a big fluffy dog you would always take with you to the beach on sunny Saturday afternoons, like something that I wanted to hug all the time.

    "No," I said, my eyes still closed and the right side of my face still pressed to his chest where his heart was, its beat as strong and steady as its owner. I furrowed my eyebrows, my face contorted for just a split second. "Of course not. Don''t be ridiculous, you haven''t done anything."

    He was like a big thing, squishing me from above, with his face. He was pressing it into my hair and I liked it.

    "Then why does it feel like I have?" he faltered. "Why does it seem like every time I want you near me, you run away?"

    I had two choices.

    One: I could be blunt and just tell him, "Hey. I''m like that with everyone. Don''t feel too bad about it."

    Two: I could be blunt and just tell him, "We have a killer to catch, literally. And if I don''t help to stop them I am literally going to kill myself, probably by jumping in front of one of the bullet trains. You''ll have to find some other boyfriend to wear your jacket."

    I went with choice zero and pulled back, for a moment, just to look him in the eye- because to me his eyes were maybe the most captivating things I had ever been fortunate enough, to have the opportunity to see.

    "You''re breathtaking," he murmured.

    I said nothing.

    He swallowed. "Do you know that?"

    Why did I love his accent so much?

    I did what I always did when I felt like it- I closed my eyes, pushed up on my toes, positioned my chin above his left shoulder, and moved my cheek against his. Idly, gently, slowly; softly like the songs I wrote on supermarket receipts. I would imagine some sort of big cute animal, like Aslan from Narnia. He was so adorable! The cutest lion ever, as far as I could tell from the ancient poster in my school library. To me there was something about the prickly and rough surface of Caleb''s face that I loved, something about the sensation that calmed me, each time I did it. It was different for him- as my breaths slowed, his would always turn fast, uneven, ragged breaths almost. I would both hear them and feel them; directly against my right ear, along with the rapid contracting and expanding of his chest against mine.

    Still I said nothing; I let the calm take over me.

    Caleb was just barely audible, when he spoke to me again.

    "Do you know how much I love when you do that?" he whispered. Panting almost, like he was short of breath.

    I pulled back again. "No," I said. "I don''t read anyone''s mind. You know that."

    "Maybe you should," said Caleb.

    "It doesn''t feel right to me." I smiled. "You don''t need to agree with me. It''s just my opinion, how I feel. I''m completely respectful of all other telepaths."

    "The only other telepath here is me," Caleb insisted.

    "Can I ask you to kiss me?" I said.

    "Aw, Chris..." he trailed off, still breathing like a wolf after a thousand-mile sprint to catch a magical flying loaf of bread. "You''re about to get more than just a kiss."

    Saying that you got a soul

    Just because you know that you are going to hell

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Do we believe when we say, "never really going to need?"

 --XXII--

    --XXII--

    Lights the color of assorted ice cream flavors and cartoon comic book advertisements.

    Underneath the droning, broken 7-11 sign that glowed its neon orange, white, and meteoric shamrock green, with black and dark brown brick as her background, I saw her.

    Kaylee.

    I smiled.

    She gripped her arrowvines tightly in her left hand- the hand that was almost as damaged as mine. She wore jeans and a purple jacket tonight; quite a switch from her typical light orange double tank top, shorts and Converses.

    I saw her from two miles away, several blocks from Hotel Il Male Nekantral.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    I was walking slow, too slow, and only because Caleb''s gait was that of a sea turtle trying to carry four crates of McIntosh apples and pie.

    TURTLES ARE CUTE YAY

    My feet had positioned themselves already and I was already fifty percent in launch position, when I noticed Caleb''s arms- which without my cognizance were wrapped around me from behind- and I realized I might hurt him if I fired myself toward Kaylee.

    TURTLE = CUTE

    DOG = CUTER

    : DDDD

    "Caleb," I said. "Kaylee''s already there. I think the others probably are, too. Let''s go."

    I rolled my eyes, at both Caleb and at myself. I had to try to be more serious, in his presence. Otherwise, I''d have just melted all the time. Yes, more serious even while thinking about how cute dogs are.

    "CALEB."

    He only tightened his lock on me, in response. I felt the heavy, hard, and forceful beat of his heart, pressed directly to the back of my shoulder; an driving, intense beat- as fast as it was half an hour ago. It felt exactly the same, still.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    I remember when I wanted a turtle for a pet

    Dude Kaylee probably be waiting like wth bro

    I shook my head for a moment. Was I really still thinking about turtles?

    BUT THEY''RE CUTE!!!

    We had only minutes until rendezvous. I stood still, feeling Caleb''s breath on my hair and the contracting of his muscles and his chin on my head.

    "You need to..." he gasped. "You need to slow down."

    ME = SLOW DOWN?? = PROBABLY NO

    He knew me long enough to know that''s just something I don''t do.

    "You''re joking, right?" I said.

    I heard the massive smile in his voice when he answered.

    "No." He laughed. "No, I''m not."

    I watched the flaming magenta and bronze combustiflies slowly buzz and hum all around us like hummingbirds- larger concentrations of them wherever the damaged, flickering streetlights were. These animals literally burned, like Malcolm''s deep red mantle did, at times.

    The thunder seemed to have stopped... although, for all I knew at the time, I had just experienced the most wonderful, hammering, heart-stopping, superhuman thunder there was out there.

    "You know," said Caleb, his voice having dropped to some kind of uncharacteristic breathy whisper, which almost shook on its way out, "There''s more where that hammering came from."

    Shit.

    I broke out of his arm prison. I turned to face him, and we locked eyes.

    "Stop being attractive-" I squealed in what sounded like the squeak of a frightened mouse, yet somehow human still and definitely blended with half a cup of embarrassment and a sprinkling of diced fear. "I''ve gotten enough distraction, thanks."

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    This marshmallow was melting.

    A raccoon- the same one I saw after infiltrating the drug house- trotted mellowly on the concrete in between us. It had a peanut in its hands, which it then left on top of one of my old, beat-up black sneakers.

    I decided to name it Happy. Happy the raccoon scuttled away before I could pat him or hug him or get him another popsicle. Half-popsicle. I watched his gray-and-brown-and-white fur disappear beneath some toppled veneers outside a long-abandoned antique store.

    White fur. I remembered Crayon- Crayon and Skittles. The best two white-fur family members anyone could have ever possibly asked for. These two big fluffies weren''t just dogs, to me. To me, they were protectors and friends and bodyguards and training buddies that followed me whenever I''d roundoff to whip with a full to back handspring my way to the beach or to the library.

    Combustiflies hovered in midair, their flames illuminating the look of abject, acheronian dismay on Caleb''s face.

    Guilt clutched at me; I wasn''t yet sure why exactly.

    "What?" I said.

    "That''s all it was to you?" he replied.

    "What do you mean?" I said.

    The stubble of yellow and silver hair on his cheeks was still glistening, and not with rain but with sweat; I watched him breathe- breathe almost desperately- for several moments that to me seemed almost endless, before he finally spoke to me again.

    "Distraction," he said.

    I rolled my eyes up to the sky. Still somewhat cloudy. Very dark purple. Wherever the moon was, she wasn''t above us, tonight.

    I didn''t see what the point to this conversation was.

    "No," I replied. "Of course not. You read my mind, too."

    I buttoned up his jacket, which his father cleaned up for me. Scott.

    I continued.

    "So you know it," I said. "You already know."

    "Well, it hurts," he demanded. His accented particularly displayed itself at the word well. His voice was slow, was heavy. Was deep. Almost the perfect exact opposite to mine. Not quite growling, not like Malcolm''s, also not too lullaby, like his sister''s. Lullaby''s not an adjective. Is lullaby an adjective? His voice was molasses; mine was butter, and soft bread. "It still hurts, to hear you say it like that."

    "Like what?" I said.

    I saw something I hadn''t seen before; hadn''t seen in a lifetime. His eyes- which shone just like ice on what we called a freezeover day in the Overwoods- changed.

    I was scared. I was worried that perhaps, and for all I''ve seen this was nowhere near impossible, he might turn into a giant waterproof earthbending omnivorous rabbit and eat me. I had no idea what it was, until I realized it was just water- a coat of tears, in front of the silver and gray and blue sea- the sea I was so completely, totally, absolutely lost in, in only the last hour. I had never been so drowned in any sea in my life, the way I was tonight. The sea that to me, was my only approximation of love, of safety.

    "Hey." I put my hands in his jacket pockets, looked down at the little peanut Happy gave me as a gift, and inched toward him slowly; to let him put his arms around me because I think he liked doing that. I liked it, too. Most of the time, at least.

    His arms were maybe twice the size of mine and in most situations a thought like that caused me only fear, and an intense, screaming urge to run away. That''s not what I felt this time, as he once again put them around me.

    "Say something to me," he said.

    I looked up, to see the water was still in his eyes. But he was smiling again.

    "You were in my mind again." I didn''t like it. But it''s not like there was some other way I would''ve turned this around so soon, either. "Weren''t you?"

    "Say something to me," he repeated, his voice slurring and mumbling, like Connor''s or Belinda''s or Henry''s voices did- when they were too intoxicated- though neither of us consumed alcohol.

    "I love your accent," I said. "Like, so much. It''s unimaginable." I felt like an animal in a trap- possibly a marshmallow cat. Or a cat marshmallow. The instinct to slink away and fly was overbearing. "It''s insane. It drives me mad. Like, in a good way. Can you let me go now?"

    "No," he said.

    "I love you, Caleb," I said.

    He looked down at me. A tiny drop of water fell from his left eye and into mine; I had to blink it away. His smile was forcing crow''s feet next to his eyes. I had them, too, even at eighteen. I smiled a lot.

    "Please don''t laugh because I love your laugh so much," I squeaked. I was virtually choking in my own misery and embarrassment. "And really, just don''t. We have a killer to catch and I owe your sister some kind of flower vase now that we''re late."

    And I had a train picked out already if we didn''t catch this murderer. And/or rapist.

    Caleb''s voice dipped low, lower than it was already by default. He gripped my arm, hard, the right one- because he knew if he did the same to my left arm or wrist, it would hurt- and his smile was gone; in a flash, in that single moment.

    "What was that?" he insisted.

    "What?" I said. "What was what?"

    His eyebrows furrowed. They were the same color as corn in a sunlit field of puppies and grass and foxgloves and columbine- yes puppies like the small dogs- on a happy, clear, sunny yellow afternoon. They were the color of sunflowers.

    "Your last thought. The one just now." He was some combination of angry and afraid, and he was trying to keep the angry part under control so as not to scare me away. Doesn''t matter. I wasn''t going anywhere. "Something about a train."

    He wasn''t tuning in. Wasn''t listening close enough. I shut him out of my mind and put on a smile.

    "Trains are funny," I said.

    I laughed- an insane, anarchic laugh that was way too pronounced and I can just about guarantee Kaylee and Sam and Wyatt (and Connor, wherever he was) all heard it too and perhaps assumed it was some random, unimportant, homeless, prostituted vagrant beggar- which, of course, I was- because of its sheer volume in decibels and its high pitch.

    "You shut me out. You shut me out again, and you don''t do that." He was demanding an answer. One I wasn''t really sure I had for him. I could see him trying hard not to sound or look like he was yelling at me, which I appreciated. "Chris, what''s going on?"

    I said nothing with a smile on my face.

    "Chris." He was pleading now. "Talk to me."

    I''m not that important was on the tip of my tongue, but that would have been a giveaway. So instead I said:

    "We need to catch this guy or gal, Caleb. We''re fine. I just don''t want my random train thoughts distracting anyone that might want to read this mind, tonight. Okay?"

    Unconsciously, I ran my hands up his arms, slowly, and took his face in my hands, just because I wanted to. My body did it before I knew it happened. There was too much void inside of me, to feel embarrassment now.

    He probably had a lot to say and we didn''t have the time, so I spoke before he could.

    I wasn''t sure if he could tell how much my own words were cutting me into little pieces as I spoke them, still smiling. "Race you there."

 --XXIII--

    --XXIII--

    Speeding into me,

    Like a bullet train,

    It''s the last thing I will see,

    Speeding into me,

    Like a bullet train,

    It''s the last thing I will see.

    I wasn''t looking for a lighthouse.

    Even though it was a really dark bedroom.

    from "Lighthouse"

    --

    Nightingale

    Day #73

    Subprocedure Fifteen

    I vomited the foul mix of tranquilizers, Vystir, opiates and sedatives they forced into me- not by syringe this time, but by pulling me by the hair and neck, and then shoving my face into a basin of water, mixed with rubbing alcohol, phenacyl chloride, and cyclohexene, until I surrendered to consuming it.

    The dead body of the boy in front of me seemed to speak to me; he seemed to say, "It''s over for me, I''m at peace."

    "There''s ten of you left," said the man that wore a mask today and not a helmet- the same man that pushed me here through hallways and glass rooms that contained bodies. Bones and cadavers. The departed kids that seemed to mean absolutely nothing to these people. "I''m proud of you for making it so far."

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    I had no head, no heart, no more meaning or significance; whatever words came out of my mouth at that point, was whatever part of my soul still bided; whatever spirit still remained of me.

    "Water," I wheezed.

    I turned my body slightly and vomited again, this time not even feeling the contraction of my stomach or throat, and comprehending only the pounding of the ice and the shattering of mountain-sized glaciers in my head. Tears ran down my half-naked body and onto the carmine marble floor.

    The man took a key card from his pants pocket and pressed it against a panel on the wall. The dark, red door next to it unlocked with a click, and he turned the handle.

    "Follow me," the man said.

    The cast polymer sink in front of me was full of my blood, and still-bubbling chemicals. I heard the man and yet I didn''t, because there was a scream in my head- one that attempted to release itself, constantly, but only managed to form itself into little running whimpers that accompanied my every inbreath and outbreath.

    "Water-" I wheezed again, in between floods of pain that choked me, that twisted my muscles, twisted my bones and lungs.

    In a moment of extreme affliction, I longed for the defiled bed sheets, I longed for the scripted, staged manipulation- the abuse I was constantly subjected to; I longed for the familiar powerlessness as other depraved beings took what they believed they needed to get. It was nothing, nothing compared to this. I was begging for it in my mind; anything, anything at all, anything but this.

    An entire life cycle of nonexistence, disarray and darkness seemed to pass before I uttered my next word.

    "Please."

    The man took me in his arms and carried me into the room, which was dark and seemed to be lit only by some candles, and a lava lamp which stood on top of a dresser. The dresser was a fascinating thing; it glowed, it was the color of a very dark night sky, and it was patterned with what looked like tiny little stars- stars that blinked and glimmered and twinkled, just like real stars did. Beside the lava lamp was a small stack of books. One of them was a Bible.

    I remember thinking, "Oh, he reads the Bible, too," until I realized it was mine.

    The man returned from wherever he went with a wineglass of water. My hands were shaking too badly for me to hold it, to hold anything at all. The man held the vessel to my lips; it was all I could do, to even swallow.

    I opened my eyes and saw this man seated on the bed, upper body poised to mine.

    "You know what happens now," he whispered to me. "Don''t you?"

    I shut my eyes again.

    Of course I knew. Men and women both, but mostly men- I had been through this, so many times, before. I didn''t ever have to do anything. Apart from whatever I was told to do.

    In some ways, it was already so easy.

    But there are certain things that can take a lot of you, and never give back; you never ever get it back. They don''t take a part of you or a piece of you. There is a safety that is offered to everyone in this universe, and that safety is gone forever, and so are you.

    --

    [[bonus note from the author:

    the recording for lighthouse is not found in nonfiction ii, it is found in nonfiction i (marshmallow songs). both albums are accessible on spotify as well as other platforms.]]

 --XXIV--

    --XXIV--

    The brass knuckles on Sam''s right fist gleamed, reflecting the deep orange blaze from the cigarette in Connor''s hand. A megacigarette- the same kind Belinda smoked; the same kind Chaquille sold.

    "Did Chaquille really overdose?" I said. "I mean, I heard it from Klein, is all. I haven''t seen him."

    "Wouldn''t know," Sam replied, almost scoffing. "Not like I see him."

    There was an intense flash of lightning east of us, for a moment illuminating the dark, broken up asphalt in front of us.

    Dirtwater Avenue. Street of Hotel Il Male Nekantral.

    "Thing''s abandoned," said Connor, blowing smoke in my face. "D''you even need us here?"

    I coughed. The chemicals he breathed tasted like salt, but not salt that came from the ocean- like salt composed of substance and dependence and disease, biting at my nose and eyes as it hit my face; it smelled like addiction itself.

    For a place in the Lowdown, the hotel wasn''t actually that bad- cement, plastic, carbon fiber, and glass; something deserted, an almost forgotten building looming over us. It overshadowed the rusty garbage bins, the piles of broken lumber, discarded ceramic scraps, puddles of human urine and oil and rainwater and malaria and salmonella. Teal arabesque on mauve tapestry and gloom seemed to stare down at us from the windows of stories above us. Sam and I stared back up at them; Connor consumed his poison- just one of his favorites. The peeling olive paint revealed rough, cameo pink silicone. It was the same shade of pink as Sam''s highlights- the ones braided in her otherwise blond hair. Like her brother, she sported a black leather vest. But on her bare arms, instead of tattoos, was a vast array of bangles, bracelets, and trinkets. One of them had a fish on it.

    "I think I do." I stayed in the shadows surveying Sam''s collection of little ornaments. One of them was like a rainbow, but in a rectangle, instead of an upside-down "U" or semicircle. Underneath it was what looked like a small brown fox, with the most adorable fluffy white mane ever. I instantly wanted one as a pet. I wondered if they existed and I could get one. "This is the Overwoods, Connor." Another was a cat with a yellow nose. It wore a pink ribbon on its left ear. "Do you remember last time?"

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    I heard Connor spit and then huff. Then puff and huff again. I dropped my gaze to his eyes. They were a similar brown to mine, but darker, with scleras and even parts of his eyelids turned red by the chemicals; his hair was auburn and blue. He seemed to almost have whiskers, wispy little neon blue strands of thinning, twiggy hair that were half invisible; there, but transparent- fully invisible only if he was. He was taller than me, of course, because almost all people were.

    The hotel seemed to almost beckon us inside.

    "Sure do," he said, before spitting, yet again. He flicked his cigarette with some sort of churlish, crabby look on his face. "Darned hard to forget, I reckon."

    Enormous black sewer rats scurried from dumpster to dumpster, to gutter, to derelict bar and back. They made strange chattering noises behind us, on the sidewalk across from the 7-11 sign.

    "Right." I stared at the concrete in front of my beat-up black running shoes. I took a breath. "A lot of things are hard to forget." I was hoping that maybe Happy the racoon would make an appearance because I was lonely. Well, maybe not lonely. But the memories were tearing me to pieces again. "Also, I didn''t invite you."

    A combustifly perched on my left shoulder, and before I could gently brush it away so it wouldn''t burn Caleb''s jacket, Connor took the little thing by its wings- with his rough, pale fingers- and used it to light himself yet another stick of harmine and toxins. As I stood there I remembered reading about morphine diacetate in a book, and about how some of these sticks contained the harmful compound- it was maybe his fiftieth stick that day.

    I almost said something, when Connor threw the combustifly on the ground and stepped on it.

    My eyes widened as it zapped and flickered- its last combustion- in a small, stellar fireworks display of bronze and shining magenta sparks; dazzling, brilliant confetti that burst from under Connor''s dull cordovan boot.

    My body reacted before my mind did and I realized it only when Connor was on the ground in front of me and I registered my own voice echoing on the street.

    "KILL ONE MORE," it said, "AND I''LL DO THAT AGAIN WITH IGNITE ON."

    My soul came back to me and I spoke again, in a less nasty tone. "Go disappear, Meadows. Now. And please, for me, cut down on the cigs if you can."

    After muttering something unintelligible he vanished, and Sam and I stood there to wait. I glanced over at the 7-11 sign- the same one where Kaylee waited earlier.

    She would be in position soon.

 --XXV--

    --XXV--

    I looked away from the 7-11 sign and approached the entrance to the building. Sam followed.

    "Midnight," she said.

    "Yes," I responded.

    "She''s on the roof," said Sam.

    It was always majorly awesome to me, to have Sam on any kind of team. Like, a MASSIVE asset, a huge plus. More so emotionally than anything else. Undoubtedly one of my favorite Union of Stars fighters; one of my best friends. A week ago we''d visited the Port with alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks from Pacifico (you can probably guess which ones were mine) and chocolate cake to mourn her loss of an SRA- she was beaten by an athletic female agent named Denice.

    I couldn''t blame Sam at all, though- Denice Lyca Zambaia had actual super strength combined with expensive formal training that neither Sam nor I ever really had. I lost to her myself, probably five thousand times more frequently than Sam did- I no longer kept count- and Zambaia was truly a powerful force in her own right. I worked with her, too, on occasion.

    Like if they needed someone who could fly.

    "She''s such a hoe," Sam said as she sobbed on my shoulder at the beach with the sand beneath us. It shifted with the grayish Overwoods saltwater (it was grayish during the summer and tasted a lot like canned shrimp) and molded to our butts. Her alcohol breath didn''t bother me as she cried some more and said, "She''s such a hoe, I''ll murder that hoe, I''ll murder that hoe." She rapped one of her favorite verses unintelligibly even though it had N word in it. She drank more alcohol and sobbed some more. "I''ll murder that hoe," she said again.

    And again.

    She didn''t mean it literally of course (I think)- Lyca was actually very respectful and mostly nice. You just didn''t want her accidentally sitting down on your unfinished paperwork or your freshly collected evidence or your facial composite sketches because if she did you would never get that stuff back, and you would probably cry.

    Well, I did anyway because I learned that the hard way.

    Belinda still POUNCES on me about it.

    Which makes no sense- like, I AM NOT THE ONE THAT SAT ON IT.

    Flash forward to the present day and no- Sam hadn''t murdered Lyca (to my knowledge), so good on her. Wonderful human.

    I tapped two fingers to my right temple, next to my eye, and flicked them forward. Time to move.

    --

    --

    Nightingale

    Exact night or day not yet confirmed

    Subprocedure unidentified

    Purpose unclear

    I stared at the fractured bones of my left hand. The skin was punctured from the inside. Exposed, crushed blood vessels and soft bone marrow all grinding against each other stared back at me. The rest of my body was a red and yellow jam.

    I looked up, at the seemingly endless vertical tunnel in which I had been tossed down. My right hand was bound tightly to my right ankle with rope that I couldn''t break. My mouth was still bleeding; a tooth chipped and broken from trying desperately to chew it off and failing because there were too many layers of the rope, too tightly bound. My right hand was a sickly dark purple and black color combo- whatever blood inside of it had probably already rotted. I could try only to move my fingers. Awful, hair-raising weeping sounds that I heard all around me echoed off the walls of the horrible tiny pit, engulfed my body with all its insanity. It was an unearthly sound. As though a monster''s spawn had been taught to cry through a hole in a broken prison stockade.

    I realize, now, that all those weeping sounds were my own.

    The dead body of a girl I once knew lay on the harsh rocky bottom of the pit. My body also lay there, unable to breathe, unmoving. My skin was broken in a million places; the palm of my left hand reduced to thin slices of human flesh hanging and flapping off of a bleeding human chopping board. I was cold, but burning with untreated fever at the same time. I felt like the only water I''d swallowed in the last twelve hours was my tears.

    And the chemicals they forced into me.

    I stared at the metal ladder to my right. It was finger-painted with hemoglobin and plasma, strands of my hair, broken bits of my fingernails. It was also covered in vomit.

    A man''s loud, domineering voice spoke from far, far above.

    "If you''ll keep quiet about us," it said, "I''ll let you out of there. Just promise you won''t tell anyone."

    No response. The weeping noises continued unabated.

    "If you just cooperate," the same man said, "I''ll toss you a chicken sandwich. We just need to make sure you don''t ever tell anyone what we do."

    Even then, my stomach turned. What we do. They already failed to brainwash me. Twice.

    Some things are better kept secret, a voice spoke in my head.

    It wasn''t mine.

    I looked at the body that was decomposing on the barbed, spiky granite floor right beside me. I looked at the ladder again.

    I had already fallen. Nineteen times.

    I looked at the body again.

    I was so hungry...

    --

    But the only reason you sing

    is for you to scream badly

    and say, "Oh, I wish I was"

    Until you push it all out to the end,

    see what you''ll never be

    Not now

    Not tomorrow

    I''m setting fires

    Sometimes, evil people put you into positions you think you can''t climb out of. Sometimes, evil people put you into situations you literally can''t climb out of.

    Remember one thing.

    Their evil will swallow them before it swallows you.

    I''m setting fires, setting fires

    I''m setting fires.

    --

    Sam locked her vibrant blue-and-green eyes on mine for just a moment. I knew she was reading my mind, and I didn''t stop her.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    "What we do"

    "Just cooperate"

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    And then Sam spoke her own words into my head, loudly, overriding all the other ugly, traumatic, horrible things that I was starting to remember. It was a blast as hard and as loud as her famous knockout blow.

    "I WILL SEND THEM TO HELL FOR YOU," she said. "Just promise me you''ll stick around."

    Only one tear fell when I responded, telepathically.

    "I don''t know the future, Sam," I said.

    "If you don''t stick around, you won''t see me beat up Zambaia."

    I tapped two fingers to my right temple, next to my eye, and flicked them forward. Time to move.

    Sam didn''t hesitate- within a millisecond I watched the colors of her accessories zoom up the exterior emergency stairs, broken at every fifth step or less, but she was more agile than even I was.

    I threw my roundoff into the hotel''s veranda and blocked off the railing for a vault, spinning fast upwards and toward the top floor. A window facing north was waiting for me, its strengthened glass already broken for me, by Wyatt. With my left hand I grabbed onto a vertical steel pipe, using it to swing myself in the right direction, while taking the earpiece from my jeans pocket with my right.

    I wondered why Belinda never told me the hotel was now abandoned. It wasn''t in her files.

    Ropeweed, set up by Kaylee, draped over both sides of the opened entryway on the sixteenth floor- her proactive contingency effort- in the event of any form of miscalculation or bad weather or me aiming for the wrong window; in the event of any explosives or flashbangs. I landed on the carpeted floor without needing to roll or flip further.

    I pressed two fingers to the earpiece and listened. If anyone else was here, they were awfully quiet.

    "IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME

    I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    -M M

    PS

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN"

    It was just barely worth thinking about. With all of my experiences- from Nightingale to Lowdown to Union of Starts and Webwork, all assignments and back- there were too many potential suspects. Even then, it could be anyone we hadn''t encountered before. Or had no files on. Not yet, anyway.

    "MISSED YOU

    CAN''T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN

    - M M"

    How many people were there? How many had I worked for, or serviced, or apprehended?

    I already knew, even as a prepubescent child, that there were psychos. Yes, I believed all people were a mixture of both bad and good- but I had seen both sides well.

    Did the "M M" part even stand for Manila Maniac? This place was called that eons and centuries and ages ago. Whoever it was, maybe they had a knack for history.

    It bugged me to think of the people I knew who did have some kind of this knack; for accounts, annals, or archives...

    Again, I remembered Marie. I had saved Kaylee. Perhaps, I had saved Malcolm. Perhaps I saved James once.

    But Marie...

    Was it that I wasn''t trying hard enough?

    Soundlessly I took the electronically duplicated key- the one that Caleb created just for me via his technological manipulation- and held it in my right fist so hard I felt my blood might start dripping onto the floor, the way it so often did during Nightingale. And not just mine; Marie''s, Kaylee''s, and all those other kids. I still remember the names of the ones I had met.

    Sixteenth floor, 1615.

    "Arrowvine," I whispered into the piece. "Do you read me?"

    "Copying clear," said Kaylee.

    As far as I knew all our telepathic channels were off; if whoever our suspect was, was telepathic- we didn''t want to give them anything.

    "Sightings," I said.

    "Negative, Marblefox," she responded. "Hide nor hair. Stringweeds haven''t been tripped."

    "Team- radio silence. Two minutes."

    I approached the door slowly while maintaining my situational awareness at its highest.

    Caleb, Connor, Sam, Kaylee, and Wyatt- in that order- responded in almost-unison. "Roger, Marblefox."

    Across from me on the sixteenth floor lobby, which was totally void of any light source, was what to me looked like a barely moving shadow. Naturally there was fear. But more powerful than the fear, was determination. There wasn''t going to be another Marie.

    I stayed perfectly still and allowed my eyes to adjust further.

    That''s when something struck me from behind.

    Or, it would have, only I sensed it first.

    An arm and a fist flew over my head and my right shoulder as I sidestepped, fast, both left and backwards- simultaneously going into backwards bridge to immediate kickover, effectively kicking the weapon out of this attacker''s hand.

    Without needing to see where it was in the empty space, I spun in the air towards my right and caught it in my left hand.

    Identifier #1: A dagger. Shaped almost like a kunai.

    Whoever it was was capable of throwing.

    Or they held this weapon for some other reason...

    "Break radio silence," I said through gritted teeth and turning ignite on. "Convene at sixteenth- anteroom."

    A raspy and very Vicinity-Four-influenced voice replied.

    "Alacrity to Marblefox- already at eleventh; moving to sixteenth anteroom."

    Alacrity was only one of Sam Shilberg''s multiple call signs- just like how Marblefox wasn''t the only code name I ever had.

    My first official team assignment was how I met Sam. At the time, her hair was dyed light green; it was in multiple long braids that swayed down her shoulders with glowing pink highlights. That first co-op job was about a year before our night at Il Male Nekantral- only a few weeks into my "alignment" under James. That first time, I remember how Sam walked toward me like a supermodel on a runway as she popped pink bubble gum and shoved a massive rifle into my arms, and said, "I heard you''re a human painkiller. Good, ''cuz I LOVE painkillers."

    I replied immediately with, "Hi, I''m literally gay. You must be Edge. I''m so super happy to meet you!" And I tried to shoot magic rainbows through my hands because I was uncomfortable with the gun and because she herself looked like a rainbow and I wanted to be like all relatable and stuff.

    But there was no need.

    I remember noting how strong her accent was when she popped her gum again, chewed, and replied with, "Yeah, me too. You get to call me Sam." She pulled a folded piece of paper from a jacket pocket and snorted whatever was in it, then said, "Let''s do this, Morphine."

    I remember how her black-and-yellow striped pants made her look like a bumblebee; a bumblebee with the most breathtakingly colored eyes.

    Subconsciously maybe I basked in that memory for a second, while in the fight, and then I really had to put my focus back on to aforementioned fight at hand because that one-second worth of throwback was the one-second moment when the unidentified attacker stuck a different knife- one that I didn''t previously see- five inches deep into my right shoulder.

    I felt it but I didn''t even look at it- and I knew what I was going to do.

    "This is going to burn," I said politely.

    I pulled the sharp blade out immediately and responded with a heel to the attacker''s neck; I followed with a sweep, to a leg lock, and then to the quadruple-twisting forward somersault dropkick that won me my first and second SRAs.

    What did I do under duress?

    I set things on fire. From the inside, if it so suited me.

    I pocketed the second weapon as both my feet made contact- still in midair- and then pushed back into a reverse spin to my right side before piking and then tucking for the sideways landing. The height and power of the recoil- or the "block" as I sometimes called it just because gymnast terminology- gave me enough air time that Sam was on the same floor as us before I actually landed.

    Then I looked at the wound; tiny, minor. So minor compared to other stuff I went through at the three-month experiment of pure torture.

    Practically negligible to me because five inches deep was nothing compared to the horrors of those three months- that was the mindset I was in while in the fight.

    I saw the accessory colors zoom directly toward us- toward the unidentified attacker and I- in pink and light green and yellow, all shining and reflecting the scarce luminescence from outside as Kaylee spoke to the team again via telepathic web.

    "Marblefox!" She was panting. "Multiple stringweeds tripped-" she was gulping air fast. And I knew she wasn''t the fastest. "Pursuing approximate location of unidentified potential suspect."

    A very short and very one-sided exchange of hands, feet, fists, knees, and elbows ensued between Sam and the attacker while I responded to Kaylee and stitched the spurting wound on my shoulder myself- standing on two feet.

    Because the cut was deep.

    And, you know, because I didn''t want too much blood on my GYMNAST with the capital G T-shirt.

    Capital YMNAST, too.

    "Approximate location, Arrowvine." I watched Sam, a grin on her face, an expression that reached her emerald-and-turquoise colored eyes- eyes just like the color of the snow here in the Overwoods sometimes- halt in a perfectly poised body position, ready to put this attacker into an arm or neck lock.

    "Northeast, Marblefox." Kaylee responded, between audibly wheezing for air, out of breath, inhaling sharply. The color of her connection and binding- the colors visible only to stronger telepaths- was alternating between ice blue and pure black.

    Sam threw her right fist into the attacker''s rib cage twice in succession and then followed with the swing of her left arm; the swing into the uppercut that launched our man or woman (or other gender identity attacker) into the air.

    I bent my knees, touched my fingers to the ground, calculated line and distance, and then let myself go like a coil spring- I pushed myself off the ground.

    Kaylee continued.

    "I''m... not sure I can..." Another wheeze. "Catch them, Marblefox."

    She sounded almost a bit like me, during Nightingale...

    In the air I spun a half-turn to my left, threw my head back and swung my right leg straight and full over the axis in which I was rotating, both backward and in a slight diagonal. Upon completion of the first backward rotation I performed another half-turn into my left but this time with my right fist extended for the punch.

    The punch that hit probably harder than it should have, because I was still shaking out not just my left but also my right hand out after Sam finished the combo with her push kick to hard overhand right. I''d seen it before, because she''d used it in plenty of SRAs.

    She once told me she was half-trained in Muay Thai, and half-trained in "DA STREETS." I said, "Oh, me too!" and then she knocked me out. It was during an SRA. You know- one of the many that I lost.

    She and I had both been hungry and homeless at at least one time or other; it made us friends; we had a lot in common though on the surface level we seemed like two total opposites. It was nice to relate with someone about life on the streets before being politely knocked out by your friend.

    I''d seen her use that maneuver on the streets, too. I saved her with spinning burn-on-impact flips; she saved me with nasty kicks and punches.

    And sometimes drugs.

    "Northeast, possibly toward drug warehouse," I said. Possibly. I had no way to know for sure at the time. I moved toward the unidentified moving shadow I saw earlier, knowing Sam was more than capable of handling a now unarmed- or at least less armed- attacker. I''d get more information or additional possible identifiers later. "Cognito- assist Arrowvine." I walkovered in combination forward toward my target. "Powergrip." I took a pen light from Caleb''s jacket. "Remain with previous directive- I need you here."

    "Roger that, Marblefox." I heard his heavy steps- Wyatt was on the way up. "It''ll only take a moment."

    UGH.

    I DO NOT LIKE THAT GUY.

    Like seriously I GET that we needed him to break the thingy but he was USELESS on this HE COULD HAVE GONE HOME-

    But whatever.

    POWERGRIP IS LITERALLY LIKE THE *DUMBEST* POSSIBLE CODE NAME THAT HAS JUST LIKE *EVER EVEN EXISTED* Uggggggggggggh

    Ugh

    UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!

    But WHATEVER.

    When you''re so miserable you act like a high school bully at THIRTY.

    #NoRelates

    "Tango Mike, Powergrip." I flipped on the switch.

    And then almost, just almost, wished I hadn''t.

    On the floor, in front of me, was a barely moving, barely breathing body. Tied up.

    Her blond hair disheveled and her blood running from her scalp down into her mouth, and then down again onto her blue laboratory attire now mixed with her saliva and maybe even more blood from her mouth-

    Elyza.

 --XXVI--

    --XXVI--

    I flicked backwards, legs over head and hands on the marble floor and back again, several times into a layout flip that spun directly into the restrained attacker''s chest, slamming them onto the floor. Wyatt emerged from the end of the hallway, his arrival physically announced by the light of the torch he carried.

    "Thanks for the light source," said Sam as she folded her hands together, outward, and in front of me. "Needed one for sure."

    I threw a gainer off her hands with my left leg, the right side of my body pulling back for a simple half twist after the calculated arcs of both my legs, and then spun into a double forward rotation before both my shoes connected, hard, directly on top of the masked attacker''s upper body.

    For a fleeting moment Wyatt and Sam both shielded their faces; the force of the stuck landing radiated in visible shockwaves that pushed the air back, hard. It kept our suspect in place long after I stepped off.

    Wyatt winced.

    "Hope you didn''t make it too bad," he commented.

    "No," I said, after nodding my thank-you to Sam, who was looking at me as she pinned our suspect down with one knee. I continued after a sigh. "I barely did anything, really."

    "No burning?" said Sam.

    "Minimal." I turned the other way and sprinted.

    I heard Wyatt laugh raucously.

    "That''s what you call what you did to me," he called out after me. "And that hurt."

    "Feel bad for them after you see Elsie," I said mostly to myself, not caring if they heard me or not. "Elsie, can you hear me?"

    Sam''s voice resonated, wavering and shrill from behind me, from across the hall and antechamber.

    "What?" she said. "Elyza?"

    "Elyza Cobb?" Wyatt''s voice.

    "Stay there with the suspect," I said.

    "Chris," said Wyatt. "What the heck is going on?"

    I said nothing.

    The pen light revealed, on the ground beside Elyza, a tiny orange cartridge with a miniature syringe built into it.

    I thought I knew what it was, but I needed to be sure...

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    I reached over, put one finger against the tip of the hypodermic needle, and instantly pulled back.

    Zapryekavil.

    Compassion, not fearlessness or heroism, moved the muscles in my body.

    I knelt down, and slowly placed a hand on Elyza''s face.

    Zapryekavil, or "bloodkill" as I called it, was a product of the Union of Stars. I had seen it only once before. In only one place, at only one time. Nightingale.

    That''s when I felt it- the same ghastly, abhorrent feeling that I still saw in nightmares and cried awake from.

    It was, as I''d overheard from the torturers, intended to wipe memories or manipulate them. If you were a telepath or someone with abilities- not all abilities, just certain ones- or someone with any amount if Vystir in your system, this chemical would not only wipe your mind; it would shut you down, possibly disable your powers for an indefinite amount of time, and above all, hurt.

    Within seconds of contact with her skin, she mumbled what sounded like a "thank you," and I felt a fire in my insides, a charring, a smoke that felt like my head and my veins were being filled with poisonous air that wanted to explode- to escape and release itself- but simply couldn''t; simply wouldn''t be allowed to.

    Another thing I learned from Nightingale: If it hurt you a lot, it usually meant that it wasn''t going to work on you, wasn''t going to make your mind or memories vulnerable to manipulating. Couldn''t make you susceptible. I know, because it didn''t work on me or on Kaylee; the chemical and its pain killed others, but not us.

    That didn''t mean I felt no pain. The orange in the dim light- the orange color of the cartridge- was gone and replaced with gray before I knew what I was feeling.

    I shut my eyes.

    "Sam!" I called out, my voice shaking, its mellow "default" tone a much breathier and much higher pitched sound than it was already- "Stay there. Wyatt, get over here, now!"

    Time made no sense at all, as I heard his heavy footsteps. Each one felt like an eternity. An age.

    "I''m here, Chris." The voice swirled amongst the images; the brutality and all its magnitude. No longer only an image now- a reality brought all the way back by whoever evil decided the way to live was this. Wyatt''s voice, strangely, was the only distraction; it was welcome. But he had to repeat himself. "Chris. I''m here."

    "Knock her out," I said, my eyes still shut.

    He put a hand on my shoulder.

    "Chris-" he started.

    "Just knock her out, trust me." I resisted the urge to pull my hand from her skin, disconnect entirely. It was the pain; it also wasn''t the pain.

    It was the memories.

    I didn''t want to cry in front of Wyatt, who once gripped me by the arms and shoulders and took my lunch money, eons ago- but it was too late. "Do it, Mr. Shafer."

    I heard the strange, sickening sound of one of his netherworldly tentacles emerging and surfacing from his back- one of the sounds I learned to hate- and then a wet, sticky impact that disrupted my painsteal connection.

    I opened my eyes, and the very first detail I noticed in the light of Wyatt''s torch was the rope wrapped around Elyza''s body- the rope used to tie her up. And then I realized why my brain picked up and noticed this particular item.

    "Hey. You okay?" Wyatt knelt down, next to me. I think maybe he put an arm around my shoulders, but I didn''t notice. "You''re all right now. Talk to me."

    It wasn''t rope-

    It was vine. Vine. With thorns. And as far as I knew, there was only one individual who knew Elyza Cobb that had any kind of ability to tie someone up with thorns and make them bleed.

    Klein.

    It''s such a shame

    You never told me what you really wanted

    Go put the blame on me

    Smoke of a fire we''ll never see

    Saying that you got a soul

    Just because you know that you are going to hell

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

 --XXVII--

    --XXVII--

    Nightingale

    Day #41

    Subprocedure Nine

    Can''t give what you don''t have.

    Avyeena Paleros was someone everyone described as a faker. She had, quite possibly, the most square and simultaneously also rectangular face imaginable.

    I stood two feet from her as we all focused our attention on the task in front of us.

    All of us except her perhaps.

    Technically a grade above me in school, I saw her in three of my classes- history, math, advanced reading. I didn''t know why she was there.

    "I swear, I''m losing my shit!" Avyeena screeched in my left ear.

    I said nothing. My eyes fixed on the strange, alabaster shape that calmly floated on the display in front of me: a screen, not unlike the ones at school that I used whenever I borrowed a book for the weekend. Only this one didn''t have catalogs or rows and columns of pieces written by rich people from millennia ago. This one gave you one-hundred and eighty seconds to watch whatever it wanted to show you and then decide whichever word or sentence or number or shape was the correct item after. Whichever "corresponded," as was said by the man who herded us into this room.

    But I knew better.

    There were five of us in the room. Well, five initially. I quickly glanced over at the murky pool of blood on the floor to my right before sliding my finger fast around the edges of the unique polygon shape on my screen; my other finger quickly tapping and moving inwards, to the center of the shape.

    I saw, immediately, how it changed from an alabaster-like hue to a very mild almond color- almost an indistinguishable shift.

    I lifted my finger from the screen, I froze, half-expecting anything from the walls crushing us to slow death to a knife blade previously buried in burning coal

    To this day, that test still confuses me. Sometimes. This is not something I will be happy to remember. It was a test of identifying differences and deviations; it was a test of identifying those who are potentially dangerous; of knowing what to run away from. It was a test of knowing criminals.

    And I knew those people.

    I shut my eyes for just a split second.

    The songs in my head are the only things that will help me...

    A few days before this torture, the man in the crimson helmet took my pen and notebook- the pen and notebook that I stole from one of their offices. The two objects that were my only source of non-torture. Because I can swear to you that every single other thing in that place WAS nothing but torture. He looked at the notes, poems, and songs, and stories for only a few seconds before he tore every page in front of me.

    Don''t try to guess how he punished me after that.

    Beams of light

    Beams of light here are a curse

    Beams of light here are a bad thing

    The men and women running the show knew I''d help people; give answers. I think they noticed that I''d previously assisted others, thereby keeping them alive, when had it been just for the experiment and not me they''d have been eliminated and then disposed. Unless their bodies had cells or relevant DNA or genes or superpowers that they wanted to look at.

    Unless their bodies were a useful tool.

    And so, I was the only one in the room who was gagged.

    They already zapped me twice for trying to give clues with the gag on. The tremors in my hand were manageable, but just barely.

    Avyeena let out a horribly staged laugh, and then an even worse and even more unconvincing laugh, and then she spoke again.

    "Just kidding, y''all!" she said with her pitifully stilted smile, one I had seen before.

    Even Avyeena''s "y''all" wasn''t convincing. She never said "y''all."

    She must have been in a lot of stress.

    "Damn! This is so easy."

    She sounded like she was at an audition for a school play and was simply forced to be there.

    She sounded like this all the time. It was irritating to almost everyone- almost everyone because to me it was, perhaps, neither worth the irritation nor attention.

    I glanced at her quickly and then down at her screen, in an attempt to at least communicate that she needed to have her cognitive functions on the more important task, and not scattered with her perfectly unsolicited and pointless comments.

    No beams of light

    Please please

    No beams of light please

    I remember a teacher once asking her and I to partner for an assignment in which we read verses of the Bible to the class, taking turns, and then entire chapters alternately. I had already done this assignment alone. Upon asking our teacher afterwards why I had to do it again AND WITH HER OF ALL PEOPLE, she replied, "Because the class wouldn''t be able to stand her voice for five minutes." She smiled at me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Let alone ten. We needed yours."

    I gave Avyeena another moment''s glance. I thought about what the teacher said.

    At this point, I think I finally had to agree.

    I thought I heard a clicking noise but ignored it; another set of instructions flashed at me on the holographic projector and I needed to read and understand.

    Quickly.

    Honestly why does she sound like that-

    It sounded like a microwave oven in a massive opera theater exploded.

    INTO A MICROPHONE.

    Both her, and the blast.

    It was a blinding flash of white.

    Glass above us- what used to be the ceiling of the room- shattered into thousands of tiny yellow-and-pink crystal shards and flying orange sparks. I shielded my eyes for an instant, before realizing THE BREAKING GLASS ITSELF WAS A TRICK.

    You needed both your hands on the screen with your mind still counting, keeping records, NOTING PATTERN CHANGES, and remembering whatever followed them.

    In spite of all this chaos.

    In spite of the micro-razor crystal shards that buried themselves into my forehead, in spite of the red liquid that, consequently, began to run into my eyes.

    But my vision wasn''t the only thing that turned red.

    --

    Only the flashing red light from Avyeena Paleros''s screen illuminated the look on her face- one of realizing the same thing I did, but only when it was too late.

    I assume now she must have shielded her eyes from the tiny shards for one second too long. Her hands, which were a pale shade of blue, were still ON THEIR WAY BACK TO THE HOLOGRAPHIC PROJECTOR SCREEN when it blinked red, one more time.

    The last time.

    I am not going to look

    I am not going to look

    I am not going to l-

    I looked. And I watched as her entire scalp started spraying blood from every single follicle- like hundreds of tiny, microscopic little water sprinklers in a garden of bottle blond, her hair and skin slowly burning itself like aviation gasoline into her skull. Imagine a thin layer of cheese melted or baked slowly into the top of a bread bun or dinner roll. Or a layer of caramel. That''s what her entire head- including her face- looked like, deflating like a red, red, red balloon of human flesh.

    I felt the one slice of bread they allowed me to have the day before push back upwards, threatening to enter my mouth from inside of me.

    I can''t even look at you right now

    Nope can''t look nope

    I''m sorry Avyeena

    Nope

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    Not looking at you

    No beams of light. Please.

    Please

    I closed my eyes. Then I looked at her one more time.

    WHY DID I LOOK AT HER

    I didn''t know her. Or I barely did, if at all. But I couldn''t help her. I wanted to, but I needed to keep BOTH HANDS ON THE SCREEN.

    Both hands on the screen

    No beams of light

    No please-

    She seemed completely unable to move, frozen, save perhaps for a very, very mild twitching of her right leg and foot that only someone like me would notice, probably. An almost unnoticeable shaft of light surrounded her area of the room from ceiling to floor.

    No

    The beams of light here...

    NO

    She was done.

    Apart from her scream, the only other sound I seem to remember is that of her retinas slowly breaking; coming apart; detaching- a sound that I wasn''t sure how I was even hearing- one small tissue at a time, and then popping, from inside of her skull, behind her eyes; her eyes which then dropped onto the floor.

    Then I realized it wasn''t the sound of retinas detaching that I was hearing. Or at least, not just that. The circle of subtle yellow light that radiated floor-to-ceiling around her was pulling apart every cell on the surface of her body.

    Slowly.

    Only the songs in your head will help you right now...

    Think of an already-broken egg toppling from the middle of a very large bookshelf. That was the first eye.

    Only the songs in your head will help you right now

    Happy place

    I don''t remember the second eye anymore. But I know nothing rolled when it hit the ground.

    Happy place

    I realize now that that was the only time I ever heard her scream, truly scream, despite all the noise that I and many others had already heard from her in school before.

    I''m sorry Avyeena

    That scream was the most real sound she ever made.

    --

    I stood there, in the circular room- or was it octagonal? And breathed, my eyes glued to the screen and waiting for a next instruction, another puzzle, another subtle string of lines to read upwards and sideways and forth and back.

    I still heard Avyeena''s insides bubbling on the floor to my left. Whatever was her brain was now identical to whatever mess was around her intact pelvis. Well, maybe not intact. The dent in it was probably not unlike the one in the metacarpal in my left hand...

    Her scream lasted longer than any scream I had made in my nightmares. Or so it seemed to me. Her eyes, shortly before dropping, had slowly moved to look at me.

    But there was nothing I could say or do.

    Scalp to neck, hands to rib cage, feet up to her stomach, I watched her turn from one you saw at school that people all hated but couldn''t avoid, to a human pork roast on a barbecue. Only I felt nothing still.

    I wasn''t thinking about how many new versions of bad dreams I was going to go home with; I was thinking of survival- because if I wasn''t going to survive, then how would I help anybody, save anybody?

    An almost familiar face lit up the blank screen. Almost familiar, because there was no face. Just the mask, red hair and stubble.

    "As much gymnastics as your body does, it doesn''t stop there, does it?" The man said. And then he uttered a slightly muffled laugh which lasted thirty seconds, which made absolutely no sense to me. He continued. "The mental side is no less impressive. See, when I choose someone, I choose only the smartest. Anything you''re capable of physically is only just bonus territory."

    That''s when shapes moved above me. Shadows, I''d guessed, maybe more enormous holding chambers or moving platforms or racks of test tubes- but, like as not, something else.

    "But let''s test that bonus territory," he continued. "If you want to prove you''re useful to us..." I saw him get up and then pick up a sheet of paper on a desk- "in addition to how profitable we already know you can be, then let''s see you in a physically high-stress situation."

    What?

    I wasn''t sure I was hearing him right.

    Physically "high-stress" situation?

    I couldn''t be hearing him right.

    In addition to all this?

    I felt the gag on my mouth- so uncomfortably tight. I probed at it with my fingers but there was nothing to make it come loose. It wasn''t fiber; wasn''t cloth.

    In addition to the glass tiles, the poisons, the injections?

    I was done for the day. They''d give me my one hour of time to sleep. Before some other kind of forced injection.

    And in addition to the bedroom?

    Well, at least the continued abuse meant, for me, a little more time to sleep on a comfortable bed.

    Sometimes, it was almost a refuge...

    The shadows above me moved down, closer to where I stood.

    Physically high-stress situation.

    No, I heard him right.

    One of these mutated creatures screeched at me- eerily a lot like Avyeena- as I had to dodge sideways and into a roll, fast. I untucked back onto my feet just as quickly and looked up. Projectile echoes and waves of sound you could actually see started coming at me from all sides.

    "We created them five years ago, from wolverines and from bats." The man''s voice was now booming at me from the main audio system that they used for larger gatherings, as well as still coming from the screen behind me. "Impressive, aren''t they?"

    "uAuffhuuh-" I stepped back and flipped backwards as one of these... these things came at me with its black talons pointed toward the side of my neck. "mmFhihuh, mmmuAuff!"

    "Oh, sorry. I forgot they had you gagged."

    The contraption that was holding my medial pterygoid and masseter and temporalis still finally came loose and hit the ground with a loud clack.

    Pattern number one:

    It targeted the side of my neck. I was already bleeding there.

    I picked up what looked like one of my ex-co-test-subject''s femurs and then Avyeena''s right tibia and defended myself from the hordes of monsterbirds.

    "How are you today?" the man said. "How is the experiment?"

    "Are they attracted to blood?!" I said.

    "Wow," the man said. "How''d you know that so fast?"

    I said nothing.

    I ran over to the four pedestals where the displays were- the ones of my now-dead experiment-mates, and started up the test programs, one at a time.

    "What are you-"

    On the first display there were two choices: 1956 and 1911.

    "THEY TOOK HALF THE WORLD. NOT BY STORM. CHAMBERS AND GAS. THIS ANGEL WAS BORN."

    I positioned my feet, calculated the distance and line, and intentionally tapped 1956.

    I lunged and flew forward- into a flip with a full twist and then a half- and then looked up as the shift of light froze these mutated wolverines with wings. I didn''t stop to watch them turn into blood and bones. I''d seen a lot of that, plenty. No thank you.

    I walked, light-footed and swift, across to the next screen.

    1911 was the right answer.

    A man was born that year- a man known for torturing innocent people. Many called him the Angel of Death, something I had also read in a book, at eight years old. His name was Josef Mengele.

    I didn''t know if it was fiction; many parts of the book were faded and I couldn''t read all of it. I remember trying to ask the librarian for a digital copy, but she said she didn''t have one, and told me to read something she called "Twilight."

    Let''s not go there.

    The next pedestal gave the following two choices:

    LRNR and JCSL.

    "YOU HAVE ONE SECOND. IF THE SHAPE YOU SEE BELOW IS NOT A PENTAGON, SELECT THE WOLF."

    The program was pretty generous, because it showed me the old Overwoods flag- the one from eons and ages ago- which, of course, was rectangular and not a pentagon. It was the flag they used before the former country from millennia ago destroyed itself completely. The program also showed the flag on the screen for two whole seconds, which was much longer than I was bracing for or expecting- so that was nice of them.

    I glanced over at the mutated creatures that were caught near the last screen. Frozen in air, slowly burning, strange little wisps of black smoke mixed with red emitting gradually from their giant, brawny, frightening bodies, like slowly evaporating molasses. Their razor-sharp claws detached; fell as a pile of searing, hot metal into the pools of human blood.

    I intentionally tapped "LRNR" and flew in the opposite direction as more flying wolverines attempted to attack me, and subsequently burned.

    Juan Carlos S��nchez Latorre, born September 13, 1980, was a man many called the "Big Bad Wolf." I also learned this from reading. Don''t ask me why they called him that.

    I remember reading on for maybe two more pages, and then crying and having to put the book down, because I had my own wolves. I went back the next day, after spending evening until morning with said wolves, to read the rest of it.

    By this time I had activated all the murder-technology areas except for one- my own- and I had noticed something else.

    Apart from that I was blacking out and that there were now only five of the monsters, another pattern had emerged in all the memories and plasma and bones.

    I just needed to test it.

    "...I''ve been speaking to you, Daniel."

    "Danny."

    "That is a nickname."

    "I don''t know what my real name is. Hate me."

    Silence save for the screeching and my ragged breathing.

    "I can''t hate you. Would you like a real name?"

    This distracted me enough that one of the wolverines had managed to clamp its teeth on my shoulder- very close to the wound in my neck- and I dropped the femur and yelled through gritted teeth and struck with Avyeena''s tibia, again and again and again until it finally let go, and I was then able to damage both of its eyes with my fingers; I wasn''t going to have to kill it. I was on the ground just regrasping the femur when a screech, earsplitting and shrill, came at me from behind.

    I knew instantly there was no maneuver that would move me out of its way entirely. I used my arms and elbows to cover my head and crossed the bones in an X behind my neck and back.

    Both bones broke, into pieces that flew like marrow-filled, blood-coated pieces of striated confetti on both my sides as they absorbed, thankfully, most of the frightening and eerie impact. Here I was unarmed with possibly a spine injury and fingers that I couldn''t move.

    I used what seemed like the last of my strength to push up into at least a crouch, using my elbows and arms mostly since my hands weren''t cooperating. But I still needed to test the theory.

    It was like when your leg fell asleep in a bad position for so long that you had to cry- that''s what my hands were like. The parts of me that could ignore it did while the rest of me suffered. Suffered as I sidestepped a visible wave of shock and sound that blew up yet another part of the tile floor beneath me, but didn''t bounce off.

    Pattern #2:

    These waves bounce off walls, but don''t move upward.

    I didn''t need my hands this time.

    "Do I go up from here? Or do I eliminate these targets?" My voice was my voice, yet it was so detached from me. Like an AI robot machine or whatever they called it had my voice installed on it. "Tell me what to do. Please. I''m so tired."

    "You didn''t like any of the names?"

    "They were all great. I just didn''t hear any of them." Four more of these monsters and this may have been it, may have been the match that was going to stab me in the throat, choke me; penetrate me through the heart, with its claws or fangs or talons. "You''ll either tell me what to do here or I''ll die. I''m not sure it matters."

    I dodged another attack, another screech, another bite. It almost wasn''t different; different from the time I was on the floor and crying from the pain, in the sense that I was there, but I wasn''t there. I was a corpse that moved. All of the rest of me had already died. Whatever remained hoped only for safety; wanted almost nothing else.

    "I just wanted some action."

    I used my right hand, which was less damaged, to pick up a bone. I''d been victim to sick people like this; it wasn''t new. But it always took a lot from you and gave little in return. "You like a lot of action, I get that." I glanced up at one of the cameras. "If I die here you won''t get any. Do I kill these-" I quickly flipped backwards to dodge the wolverine that was swooping in toward me with its fangs bared; I rebounded into a double backwards tuck for extra distance- "or is there some platform up there that I can reach for safety?" I paused to catch my breath, which at that time felt like an almost impossible task- either the air was empty of any oxygen or the hard blow to the back of my head was playing tricks on me- "I know the screech-projectile-echoes don''t move up."

    A door panel hidden in the wall, one like many others here, unlocked itself with a subtle emission of cold air and vapor and smoke. Tranquilizer darts from above shot at the remaining mutation-creatures, and I watched them flop onto the ground, which was still slick with intestines, eyeballs, and hemoglobin. It looked almost graffitied in some places- the places where I was and struggled and flipped and my shoes drew lines in the blood. I smelled like I vomited liquor on myself- a smell I knew only from knowing other people who were alcohol-addicted, and having to be physically very close with them- in addition to smelling like I swam in a soup of dead, boiled human bodies. Which might or might not have been, actually, the accurate statement.

    "I like how you always fold the sheets in the morning."

    I turned around and there he was, the man in the mask.

    "What do I do now?" I said.

    "Nothing tonight." He scratched a stopwatch on his suit. "You''ve proven your survivability for the day."

    For the day.

    "What should I expect tomorrow?" I said it politely. I didn''t like him when he was mad. His emotion in itself didn''t bother me. But he knew how to hurt you. And if he was mad, he would hurt you. "Apart from the injections."

    He didn''t answer my question.

    "You let tomorrow take care of itself," he said in a warm, obliging voice that severely contrasted to the violence all around us. I was in a slaughterhouse, of humans, of children, and here was a man who drank wine from expensive glasses on tables of diamond. "What would you like tonight?"

    "I''d like my own blanket."

 --XXVIII--

    --XXVIII--

    Was it because I was sleepless, or was it because I didn''t catch whoever was responsible?

    I remember trying not to think of Marie. I remember trying not to think about bloodkill.

    Nightingale in general was always going to be there. What was in front of me was not a new story in the Overwoods. I didn''t claim to be strong; only that I did what I could to protect the good, in any and all its forms.

    I wondered, with Liquid Nitrogen''s blood on the soles of my inexpensive sneakers, If Avyeena had lived, would she have just killed herself? It was my best attempt at introducing a new thought into my own mind. How would Kayles have felt, had she been the sole survivor?

    I should have answered wrong.

    "You''re starving."

    I looked up, from the green sheets with red notebooks on them where I wrote everything.

    "Just one bite. It''s still hot."

    If I said that when people were kind to me or cared, I always believed it, that would be a lie. If I said I always thought that kindness, if directed toward me, was heartfelt and not a manipulation tool to eventually use me and completely contriturate my psyche because there is evil out there, that would be something else; "lie" could not be strong enough.

    At that particular moment it was as though I wasn''t hearing Malcolm''s voice. I just heard some sort of deep, disembodied grumble as my thoughts again turned to Crayon and Skittles.

    I had to be polite, kind, because karma.

    I smiled.

    "I''m not hungry," I said.

    Malcolm crossed the room and replaced a fifth plate of whatever-it-was on my only clear surface: a small plastic table I won in third grade for something I wrote. I had to fly in and out of the Lowdown at 2AM to retrieve it and one of my stuffed animals, Penguinowo. Malcolm stood still after putting it down and taking the last plate.

    I was older. But I still froze, still stayed hypervigilant, still breathed a little less whenever anyone even slightly larger than I was alone in the same room as me. Especially if there was a bed.

    "I ain''t a telepath from the Suburbs," Malcolm growled, "but even I know you''re lying." I heard his significantly louder sigh of why-do-I-bother and even felt it on my face. "I haven''t seen you go anywhere, eat anything. I thought I was worth more than ''I''m not hungry.''"

    Part of me wanted to say something, but I didn''t.

    Right before the door shut, he said, "I guess not."

    --

    I flipped open the new keypad-type phone I was using temporarily, one Kaylee gave me when I wasn''t sure I was cognitively able to handle anyone else.

    "BELINDA IS GOING IN FOR INTERROGATION."

    I was still wiping my eyes when I read her new message.

    "6AM TOMORROW."

    Interrogate Belinda Klein? Call me what you would. Wyatt had little to no chance of going that deep. Some telepaths were a bit easier to read- exempli gratia myself, most of the time anyway- and some were more like Belinda. Awkwardly, and with my left hand virtually convulsing, I typed in my reply.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "CAN WYATT EVEN CRACK HER CODE?" I said.

    "I''M SURE HE''LL DO FINE."

    "ARE YOU?"

    "HOW MANY INTERROGATIONS WENT THE OTHER WAY FOR HIM BEFORE?"

    I had to take a moment.

    "FOUR."

    To the best of my knowledge, at least.

    I shifted from my half-curled-up position facing the wall to flat on my back to stare at the photographs I stuck on to the ceiling. On the left, suspects I''d apprehended and stopped. On the right, those we either needed to investigate further, or otherwise just arrest entirely.

    Often the people I still had locate and arrest looked a certain way. They looked like murderers.

    "Four," I repeated to Kayles, letting down my telepathic barrier for the moment. "That I know of. Only, really, because I was asked to speak to the suspects after he failed."

    Kaylee''s telepathic voice responded. I closed my eyes.

    "He''s interrogated lots of people, Chris."

    "Yeah," I replied. "Me included."

    "What?"

    "Nothing," I said. "Let''s move on."

    Caleb was able to track Belinda Klein''s location not by use of any fanciful electronics or gadgets she owned, but because, apparently, Caleb had already placed a tracking device on one of her pairs of glasses- one small enough to go unnoticed. She''d boarded a U.S. flight to the mainland before Sam intercepted. Now Sam''s just as injured as Elyza.

    My eyes flew open at the memory of seeing bloodkill; the memory of realizing exactly what pain Elyza Cobb was put through, when I saw her, when I understood what chemical was forced into her blood. For Elyza''s sake, I hope she doesn''t remember the pain; I hope all she remembers is how I took the horrible monster from her body. The one that makes you cry, and beg. This way, only Kaylee and I will know the nightmares.

    Who gave Belinda the Zapryekavil?

    "Do you have any idea why she did it?" I said.

    "We don''t know she did it," replied Kaylee.

    "You think there''s anyone else in the Overwoods with Belinda Klein''s abilities?"

    "Experimentations still happen, Chris. New powers could come up at any time." Kaylee paused. "Well, I guess a lot more dead bodies than actual new powers but, we don''t know."

    "Midnight," intruded Sam.

    I quickly skimmed over the photographs, facial composites; settled on Torres. Did he know anything?

    "Yes, Sam. Hi."

    "Hi!" squealed Kaylee.

    "Tell that bitch we need a rematch," Sam hissed. "And this time, I''m throwing her off the plane."

    "Unless her prison''s going to be on a moving airplane," I said, "that''s not going to happen."

    "Fine, tell her she''s going to get private conjugal visits." Sam popped her telepathic bubble gum. "From me, up close."

    "I''ll tell her you wanna get high with her," I said. "How''s that?"

    "Deal."

    Sam vamoosed from the connection. Even in telepathy, she dropped half her R''s. The other half turned into Y''s. To me her voice was almost always very entertaining.

    "You''re in trouble with James," said Kaylee.

    "He can suck a jellyfish," I said. "The poisonous type."

    "Naw," said Kaylee. "You don''t mean that!"

    "Man has no idea what he''s doing." I focused on the butterfly on Torres''s face. "Neither do I, frankly. But sometimes I don''t know why I take orders from that dude."

    Kaylee laughed.

    "You called him ''dude.''"

    "I don''t want to be respectful right now."

    "That''s not disrespectful."

    "If the Overwoods blows up, again, like it did thousands of years ago, it''s his fault."

    Kaylee paused.

    "He cares about you," she said. "You know. In his own way."

    "It''s a twisted way."

    "Would you rather he didn''t care at all?"

    The butterfly''s right wing was slightly smaller than the left. It might have just been my mental state, but I felt like I had almost seen Reynaldo Torres somewhere before...

    "No," I replied. "I appreciate it. I just... wish things were easier."

    There was a knock on the door. I immediately dropped the connection.

    "I''ll eat, Malcolm!" I yelled. "We''re good!"

    I struggled to get up to some sort of sitting position, knocking two of my notebooks off the side of the bed. I was just happy to be seeing the color red on their covers again. The door swung open before I could pick them up.

    "You have a visitor."

    I folded the notebooks shut, after flipping through a few pages. I pressed my fingertips to my eyebrows for a minute.

    "Are you gonna say anything?" Malcolm pressed.

    I bit my tongue.

    Am I permitted to not say anything?

    I fumbled with the edges of the light cotton bandage I still kept wrapped around my left hand. Tested it, slowly moving one finger at a time, from the shortest one to the longest.

    I inhaled, very slowly, and took twice as long for the exhale that followed it.

    "I told Caleb not to visit me."

    Malcolm put down an oatmeal bar- in blue wrapping- on the floor next to Penguinowo, who was sitting by the door.

    Good. Penguinowo was hungry.

    Pain clutched at my stomach. It was probably just the poison spray from the canister, and all of the injections from the senseless human experimentation and torture they forced onto us, from when-

    "Eat something," said a familiar voice as it broke through my thoughts like a battering ram, "or I will tie you to a tree and make you smell mutant gardenia-citrus-corpse flower hybrids."

    I pinched my lips together. Kaylee''s telepathic voice, but a slightly softer version of it. It reminded me of me. My mouth remained shut as I looked at Malcolm. I spoke again, but this time via telepathy.

    "The blue ones or the pink ones?" I said.

    "The orange ones," said Kaylee.

    "OH MY GOD," retorted Sam with very palpable, unmistakable revulsion in her only slightly less Four-accented telepathic voice. "Those are SO REVOLTING-"

    I put my telepathic barrier back up.

    I took another very slow breath, wiped off any water that might still be on my cheeks because sometimes I cry, and moved my fingers around just as Malcolm spoke again.

    "It''s not your boyfriend," he said. "It''s your boss."

 --XXIX--

    --XXIX--

    James led the way to the nearby beaches where I sometimes still tumbled. I followed while eating the still-hot French toast Malcolm made for me, with his own heat and fire, prepared outside the small two-story house.

    "Tell me, Midnight," said James, "what part of You take the hotel on Monday did you not understand?"

    "I understood the sentence."

    "So you intentionally went against my authority."

    "Do you or do you not realize that had I not been there, Cobb would be dead right now?"

    This made him hang back.

    I kicked a broken shell off the road and back into the sand. I kicked off my sandals, too, and walked into two front handspring stepouts- one-handed because of the toast- sitting myself down on the sand as landing for the second one while still eating Malcolm''s fancy and yummy and happy bread.

    Still no response from James. I looked over my shoulder. He wasn''t looking at me.

    "Ih wath the righ choith," I said before swallowing the mouthful of toasted, buttery happiness. "It was the right choice and you know it." I paused. "It was the only thing to do. Anything else would''ve been disaster. And because of you, too."

    He was my boss, but just for that one moment, I wasn''t going to sugar coat. Someone could have been murdered- and to me, it wasn''t just anyone, either.

    My gaze went back to the 5PM horizon, the sky with all its smeared-around combinations of orange and red, mostly a translucent color that made me think of pink lemonade maybe mixed with strawberry juice. The sun was unobscured and glowed just as mellowly, just like it did, back when I kept hermit crabs from here as pets- before letting them free again, back here, after a day. I was younger and really wanted pets. I wasn''t allowed any, was told I couldn''t "afford" them; I didn''t know what money moved in or out at that time. I returned the little things because I didn''t want them around the air of drugs or prostitution. They deserved better.

    I looked at my hands. I''d forgotten to wrap the left one, but any pain was unnoticeable because of the waves and the sky and the ocean air around us. It made the humidity- typical it being the Overwoods- not only bearable, but almost welcome.

    James still didn''t say anything. Red flag, very unusual. James didn''t not talk. I considered flying away, perhaps off to some other, less beautiful or accommodating part of The Port where someone the likes of James would never set foot. Maybe to the Bay of Bodies; maybe to McKinley War Memorial. Or somewhere else. There was no end of hiding places, now; now that I was the survivor that was forcefully made of me.

    But not the Lowdown.

    Never the Lowdown...

    I glanced at the strange, slow, orange-with-purple-clouds Overwoods summer sunset; I remembered Marie. Summers here that rained and snowed with typhoons or hurricanes or every other catastrophe you could possibly think of. The boys and girls- the children-- that have never and will never recover from the tortures.

    But Kaylee and I are damaged forever.

    While the ones who ran the experiment are probably out drunk and partying.

    I am so hungry...

    But at least his hunger was my choice. I was empowered; it was MY doing; MY self-inflicted pain- no one was doing that to me but me and thus it made me feel some small sense of autonomy; some small sense of control. Who cared if it hurt, right? At least I had a choice for once.

    For freaking ONCE.

    So I didn''t care that it hurt; that I felt there were two slices of bread and a pool of toxic acid with poison-canister-spray in my esophagus and stomach.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    But I''m still hungry...

    I was already calculating line and distance and where exactly to place my feet when he spoke again.

    "That''s why I''m here."

    "Because Elyza would be dead right now if not for what I decided, and the rest of the gang? My friends who you call drug addicts? Which, by the way, makes zero sense coming from you. Are you here to stare at the beach with me?" I moved, getting up from where I was and walked north, toward a rock. "Because bye."

    A frayed, old piece of rope hanging from a boardwalk railing started flying towards me.

    I flipped backward in layout and out of its way, no hands this time and no twisting as I was now a bit more cognizant of the pain in my hand. Sometimes, I wondered if the contraption from Nightingale was still on it. Just maybe invisible, or something.

    James''s voice was undeniably one of anger.

    "You will stay here," he said, in a very uncharacteristic bark that only reprimanded me further, "Or you''ll find some other federal agency to work for!"

    I froze. But only for a moment before I responded with, "Maybe I should."

    At that moment a squirrel with a red coat of fur- the same one I had seen in the school- materialized from under a toppled-over recycle bin. It scurried over and stood on its hind legs in front of me.

    I gave it the rest of my French toast.

    Marie''s dead. Hundreds of other kids are dead; maybe even thousands.

    I didn''t deserve food anyway.

    I saved Elyza''s LIFE, and here I am- getting my butt CHEWED OUT for it.

    Maybe that guy or gal (or otherwise other gender identity individual- I didn''t know the pronoun) was right-

    NOTHING I do is right...

    "No matter who I protect or what I do for you, you''re unhappy," I continued. "To me right now, you''re practically mad Elyza''s alive. Half the stuff you make me do doesn''t even make sense."

    Something tugged tightly around my right wrist and pulled me straight down into the sand. Without glancing over I knew James had kept me in place.

    I pretended I wasn''t scared.

    "Lecture me now if you want to so badly," I said, "or fire me. I''m not sure it matters anyway."

    I wiped water off my left cheek.

    "I get it," I whispered. "I get it. Nothing I ever do is right."

    Maybe Elyza will do something right. Maybe, maybe that will count as something, because I saved her.

    I felt the rope loosen, but only so slightly. I was still stuck here.

    James was smiling some sort of smile, which was more of the norm. The words he spoke next exhibited a tonality to his voice that I didn''t hear very often- but it was one that made me believe him.

    "I came here to say thank you."

    The rope came off. I dusted off my pants and walked to where the torn brown sandals were laying in the sand. They were too huge for me but I liked them because they were Malcolm''s. He let me use them on Sundays. There were a few acorns in one of them- the squirrel must have left them there- and I shook them off onto the sand.

    Why on earth would the squirrel leave that there-

    My fingers fumbled at the hem of the shirt I was wearing. It was a gift from Sam- a small black T-shirt with the picture of a cartoon Pembroke Welsh corgi puppy and the words "i''m a corgi" all in lowercase below the printed graphic; she heat pressed the shirt herself in her home in V4.

    Squirrels were strange in the Overwoods- like almost all other things in the Overwoods, they made little to no sense to me. But at least they were cute; at least they were mostly harmless; at least they weren''t broken human child traffickers- leaders of mass abuse, evil in walking form and seemingly human.

    Yeah you know squirrels be cute like that

    Nice train of thought, right?

    But the squirrels deserve better than to live HERE...

    That they did. So did 6 out of 10 people. Or at least that was my thought at the time.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Did you hear what I just said to you?" said James.

    I looked at him. Carrot hair; pistachio-ice-cream eyes; dark circles prominent under the glasses. My first instinct was to say thank you back- but something just felt wrong; I wasn''t sure what. Maybe it was that he was thanking me for saving one life when I watched dozens of kids die in front of me at age eleven; maybe it was that the mess would not have happened at all if not for me. Consider that I''d already hopped off of Century Spire''s roof to die and apparently I didn''t even do THAT right.

    I stared at the ground; at broken little shells on the sand. Most of them where dull gray. Some were bright orange. A hermit crab danced on top of a broken wine bottle.

    Even small things like broken wine bottles reminded me of Nightingale.

    Cute little hermit crab.

    Focus on cute dancing hermit crab.

    The cute dancing hermit crab climbed off of the broken wine bottle and crawled into a small hole in the sand.

    I was the one who needed a hole in the sand to bury myself in- or at the very least a shell to go back into and hide in.

    Dancing hermit crab is lucky.

    "So, I don''t deserve a reply, I guess." James put his glasses in his shirt pocket. You know- the fancy expensive shirt with the collar and the pocket. "I came out here just to thank you," he said, "and all that your eighteen-year-old mind is thinking about... is a crab."

    That was oversimplification.

    "It is an oversimplification," he said. "But you get my point."

    Uhm like no I don''t.

    Nice of him to assume I understood the point, though.

    "At least talk to me if you won''t talk to Malcolm."

    WHAT?

    WHAT IS THE-

    THERE WAS NO COMPARISON.

    Just say something and maybe he''ll finally leave you alone.

    "I''m not sure if you''re welcome," I said.

 --XXX--

    --XXX--

    I was still occasionally coughing from the lingering effects of whatever spray was in that canister thingy.

    I refused to show up at the interrogation. I wanted no part of it.

    Tiana Ambervi waved at me, from across the road, her glasses gleaming back the gray silver of the Overwoods sun on an overcast Monday morning. It smelled like chopped wood and the mines- one of the many indicators that I was now walking even farther away from the Bay area, and towards Vicinity Four. Like rocks broken open and like the murders of lives that harmed no one. My phone buzzed for a fourth time and I ignored it.

    Tiana had eyes seemingly gray, like the "wolf-in-winter" painting I made together with Caleb for his school project years ago. I was no painter. He was. But he needed my concepts.

    I needed his company.

    "What you doing here?" Tiana said, crossing the street and coming toward me. Her voice and accent both were relatively uncommon in the Overwoods- reminiscent of older Southeast Asian enunciation; tone patterns that were now all but nonexistent. "You need medicine?"

    I probably did. But I didn''t say that.

    Up close her eyes were dark brown; very reflective- almost as shiny as the copper adornments and mineral beads she loved to put on her purple headdress.

    She looked like she was getting married.

    Like, every single day.

    "No," I said. "I, uh. I buy bread here sometimes."

    She frowned at me. Sometimes I just didn''t know what to say. Or I didn''t have anything amazing to say, at least.

    "Yeah. I''m lying," I said.

    Tiana and I ran into each other at school sometimes. Often at the library. Sometimes, we argued about who would take home which book for the night. Of course, if I knew I was "working" that night then I would just let her take whatever she wanted. She would thank me and I''d of course say nothing.

    "White lie," she said. "No matter to me."

    I smiled.

    "Maybe," I said. "How are you, Tiana?"

    I was able to "recruit" her into a technician-type job at the Webwork, she now rented a room away from her home in Vicinity Six for easy access to the building, given how unpredictable weather in the Overwoods was combined with the often precarious journey from V6 to V4. Her sister worked in the mines- like Malcolm- and ultimately was killed because of a fatal exposure to Vystir poisons. She died after a day, despite both their parents owning a small clinic for chemical contamination and drug poisoning in Vicinity Six. Her sister was seventeen.

    "Oh, so happy." She hugged me and somehow I just wasn''t there, so I wasn''t able to really feel it. "So happy to be away from Six."

    That''s right. She told me about what happened one day, to her sister and how she couldn''t stand treating all the drug addicts afterward anymore. So, of course, that night I broke into James''s office top of the Webwork tower above the Coliseum and looked for secret job openings. I got her the spot the next day.

    "Well," I said with some kind of twisted-by-trauma-and-sadness smile, "I helped one person."

    She laughed.

    "You always so humble," she said.

    "Do you know where I can find Ember?" I said.

    "Emberion?" said Tiana. "Myelantic? Why? What you need?"

    "Some kind of painkiller. The nonaddictive kind," I replied. "It''s not for me; it''s for Sam."

    We were somewhere between the center and south of V4. There was loud rustling as a train ran past us on its path in the center of McPhearson Avenue. It caught my attention but I wasn''t sure why. I followed it with my eyes until it was out of sight.

    "Why she need it?" said Tiana. "She not gonna sell that?"

    "No," I said. "It''s for her to take."

    A combustifly landed on my hand to roast the mosquito- a mosquito I didn''t even notice- that was just about to feast on my iron-deficit, low-sugar blood. It was a warm, tickling feeling. And then it flew away to go munch on its new toasted mosquito meal, or to bring it to its combustifly family.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "Thanks," I said to the combustifly.

    "Why, who she is fight into this time? Her brother?"

    "No, no. You don''t want to know."

    "I do, so I warn other people!"

    "Doesn''t matter," I said. Maybe a bit sharply.

    "And how it not matter, Daniel?"

    "Because Belinda Klein is in jail, and Wyatt and I are possibly, maybe, supposed to be interviewing her?" I said.

    Yeah, except I wasn''t there. Alone in a room with Shafer, and Klein, too? Bad enough, per se.

    But combine that with all that''s happened...

    Another train sped past. Wasn''t it a bit early for a train- now two, at that- to be running through V4 like this?

    "So..." Tiana said, "On the airplane, that was...?"

    "Yes, that was Sam and Belinda." I closed my eyes. "Look, Tiana, can you tell me where Ember is?"

    "Sorry, yes. He in the Thornton building. Beside Douglas. 24th street."

    I checked the time and hence also saw my number of unread notifications. Fourteen.

    "So beside the-"

    "Beside trap house, yes."

    "I was going to say ''pharmacy,'' but sure."

    Tiana spoke her next words with either apparent humor, or apparent sarcasm, maybe both, I couldn''t tell.

    "They miss your business there."

    I gave her a half smile. Mordantly.

    "Right," I said.

    --

    The four walls were just like I remembered them. Baby blue. The single fixture hanging from the ceiling glowed a dim white which illuminated the small plastic drawers of pills and small bottles of different liquids.

    I sniffed, partly because I was remembering how Crayon and I once ran down a mountainside, and down to a beach, to catch up with Skittles, who decided to make friends with a crab that ended up pinching her paw. I kicked the crab into the water where it probably drowned.

    Do crabs swim?

    ...and partly because of the aftereffects of whatever gas poison it was, I was still feeling it.

    "Do you have anything for..." I had to pause. "I don''t know. Like, tear gas side effects?"

    Emberion puffed his megacigarette smoke- thankfully- away from my face. There was little enough ventilation and what was there was a semi-working exhaust fan in a square hollow drilled through the wall.

    "What''d ya do, fight Krasvya military?" he said.

    "What?"

    "Nothing," he replied. "Whatever the hoe used at ya it was probably made to make you forget, or unconscious. And we all know," he smirked at whatever face I was making, "Zapokavich don''t even work on ya."

    Zapokavich?

    "You mean Zapryekavil?"

    "Yeah that, whateva."

    Bloodkill.

    When you''re one of two survivors from an experiment that took, quite possibly, hundreds of children from across the only island left in the entire continent, people talk about it.

    "Okay, so," I said, still trying to keep my mind clear, "anything you have for it?"

    "You''ll be fine, Danny boy."

    Sheesh. Why I spoke to these people, sometimes, I''ll never know.

    "I have people to arrest, Myelantic."

    Emberion Myelantic: half human, half centaur. I think that made him one-fourth horse. The result of an experiment far different from what I and Kaylee lived through- though he was one of many more survivors.

    I shook the bottle full of green pills in my left hand. Ember wagged his pure white tail, white like the suit he was wearing. He wore a tie that read, "Just For Today." On my left, posted on the wall, was a slogan with "Cocaine is better than megacigarettes!" written on it. This all made perfect sense.

    I sighed.

    "What''s up with all the trains, Ember?"

    He puffed his smoke away from my face.

    "Mines," he said.

    "They need more people?" I asked.

    "Nah," Ember said. "People dead again. More..." he waved his free hand in the air- one of his nervous tells- "...more commotion."

    His megacigarette was the Dark Plum flavor. It to me smelled like a Sharpie dipped in liquid sage, melted, and then puked on. By an alcoholic.

    What wasn''t he telling me?

    "I''ll get you miracle apples from Eight," I said, "If you tell me what exactly you''ve heard."

    Overrated pink fruits that all the centaurs and half-centaurs, which were a small fraction of the population that lived, mostly, in the woods between Vicinity Four and The Port. But not Ember- he needed to do his... transactions.

    His sky blue eyes lit up.

    "Two of ''em?" he said.

    "Five," I said.

    He whinnied, albeit subtly, unable to contain his excitement. Horsefolk didn''t go to Eight- Vicinity Eight was where their crow counterparts, the Talon, nested in their large and overly mutated evergreens, sugar pines, scots pines, red pines, sequoias, the occasional red maple.

    "Just somethin'' I heard."

    "Now," I said. "Before I read your mind and you get no apples."

    He made some kind of centaur-horse sound. Something between a nicker and a squeal.

    "Juz''n drama ''tween the folk and someone being killed, okay?" He lit himself another Dark Plum. "A kidnapping."

    Kidnapping?

    "Elyza''s?" I said, a familiar fear slowly making its way over me.

    "Nah," Ember replid. "A new one."

    A new one.

    IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME...

    I think we did.

    "What else did you hear?" I said.

    "Some sort of struggle- a fire." Fiyah, it sounded like to me, his speech so heavily affected with that archetypal Four accent. "An inferno sumwyeh."

    Sumwyeh was "somewhere" in Four accent.

    ...I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    I checked my phone.

    Fourteen notifications...

    "James wants to talk to you."

    Gross.

    "Awesome win at the SRA! Come have a drink with us, Midnight! Pacifico next weekend? Show us a signature cartwheel or whatever! How''s that sound, buddy?"

    Um, yeah, no.

    "Do a front flip!"

    With a full or without a full? Doesn''t matter, no.

    "Ur hot giv me sum brain"

    What does that even mean?

    "Blow me or I will hack your girlfriend''s social media and all of your BirdCoin. And your social media."

    No.

    I wasn''t even on any social media, this was pathetic. I was literally gay, still am. What''s BirdCoin?

    "U SUCK AT LEAGUE PLAY A SUPPORT NEXT TIME"

    I did play a support, I only ever played supports, what an idiot-

    I scrolled to the bottom. One message from Caleb.

    "Danny, call me. Right now."

    Twenty-five minutes ago.

    ...DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.

    I became aware of the water in my eyes. There was... no way, was there?

    And the mines?

    Malcolm wasn''t supposed to be back there this soon, was he?

    A new message buzzed in.

    "Monday

    7:34 AM

    Sent via SecureWeb

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN

    Reply Forward Delete"

 --XXXI--

    --XXXI--

    "Monday

    7:34 AM

    Sent via SecureWeb

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN

    Reply Forward Delete"

    MONDAY

    7:35 AM

    Thornton Building

    Almost obvious no-brainer: Delete.

    But I refrained from tapping the delete button. Caleb might use this. I now had to decide whether to contact Wyatt first, to ask if Belinda knew anything about whatever was going on in the mines, or Kaylee.

    Calling Caleb was out of the question. If he was wherever the assault was taking place, contacting him would further spur the assailant. One thing you learned working for the US: you gave information only to those on your side, only to those that deserved it.

    I politely held a hand up to indicate to Ember that I needed a minute.

    "Kayles," I said, telepathically.

    "Yes?" she said.

    "Where are you?" I said.

    "Pacifico." Her mood changed from a forest green to an amber-red shade of alarm. "Chris. What''s going on?"

    "How many people did you say you spotted?" I said. "Back at the hotel?"

    "One tripped the stringweed," she replied. "Four people. Medium height, average builds. One taller. One had wings."

    "Talon?" I said.

    "Possibly," she said. "Where are you?"

    Weren''t most Talon from V8?

    Some were from V6, if I remembered correctly the things that Tiana Ambervi used to tell me about all the time. I didn''t have much cause to really take notes, and I was no expert on hybrids of that sort- only an expert on survival in the Lowdown, where 99% of the enemy are humans that are so miserable, all they can ever do is force their own misery on other humans.

    Actually, were they even human?

    I pulled out my phone. I started scanning faces of other killers, holographs of suspects, most of whom were from the Lowdown and thus were assigned to me, facial composites wherever photographs were not available.

    Just looking at those ugly faces made me want to vomit.

    You know how you feel when you see a cockroach? Well, imagine that feeling multiplied by ten, by a hundred, by a thousand.

    That was how I felt whenever I saw those people.

    "Thornton Building, V4. Not far from you," I said. I telepathically spoke only half of my next sentence, before the most vehement interruption. "We need to get to the mi-"

    A resounding blast. A quick flash of light that penetrated even this tiny shack of a room. Something, not far away, had seemingly detonated. Ember shielded his ears from the consequent static while I turned to exit.

    "I know where to go," said Kaylee.

    I was glad I left Caleb''s jacket at home. Who knew what we were about to walk into? I was halfway down the hall when Ember''s voice halted me.

    "I have somethin'' for ya!"

    What, another deadly, addictive drug that was half of all of his profits? One that I couldn''t even afford?

    I didn''t even bother to roll my eyes. Thoughts ran through my mind- thoughts I''d had before, from past interactions with him.

    No thanks.

    I wondered what he was selling me this time; I didn''t stop walking.

    To be fair, at least he''s making death and misery a little bit more on the painless side, at least for some people, I remember thinking.

    I felt sick.

    I heard crates being knocked over, the rattling of a set of keys, and then hooves racing toward me from behind just as I reached the exit.

    "We got something for the Christopher Midnight," Ember said, grabbing my arm. "From allzus nobodies here in V-fouwh. We wanted to thank ya. Y''know, f''reverything."

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Ember unlocked a green polyvinyl chloride door a foot away from where we stood. He gestured for me to open the door.

    "You''ll love ''em, I sweah." He smiled. "Promise ya."

    I turned the knob and pushed the door open. There were two beings inside the small room- both of which had metallic brown collars on them which read, "FOR MIDNIGHT." A large, white Samoyed... and Happy the raccoon.

    I looked at him with a look of disgust on my face. Disgust and disbelief.

    "You imprisoned animals for me?" I said, unable to believe he could be so dumb.

    "We stole ''em," said Ember, "from the labs."

    "What ''labs,''" I replied flatly, and with no intonation- before realizing the answer.

    Okay why on earth do I ask THE STUPIDEST questions

    I wanted to cover my ears; I wanted to take the question back; I was shaking my head and I''m pretty sure there was a rainbow and a marshmallow and a blue sky-

    "Same labs whe'' they expeeyimented ahn us," said Ember. "I heard you been thyeah."

    --

    Nightingale

    Day #4

    Subprocedure Eleven

    Like they hadn''t injected enough stuff into us already.

    They had us all in a circle facing away from each other. Kaylee spoke to me, telepathically.

    "You''re alive," she said.

    I was concentrating too much on the burning glass tiles that shifted in front of me. They moved laterally. I remember thinking I just might survive- there was a method to their movement, a system; I was excellent at pattern recognition.

    "Danny!" she screamed inside my head.

    I responded back through the same telepathic connection, just through thoughts. I didn''t know I was a telepath at the time, I didn''t get it. It didn''t matter to me.

    "Kayles," I said. "The cracked tiles."

    "What?" she said.

    "The cracked tiles." I shifted my eyes, from my bare feet on the podium I was on- to the men and women who observed us from their glowing cinereous den, far away, to the left side of the behemothic expanse. "They move only if something around them gives off smoke."

    The voice on the intercom flickered with the lights; flickered with the flames that lit half the space- the space below us.

    "You will survive this test." It was a woman''s voice that time. It still sounded like the voice of evil. Just like the other one. "Simply make your way to any of the marked-off green platforms attached to the far walls."

    "All of these squares are on fire, Danny! And none of them even have any cracks in them!" Kaylee''s telepathic voice vociferated in my head. "How... are we going to survive this?"

    She was crying and I felt it in my mind, without even seeing her.

    I responded with thoughts, unaware I was now communicating the same way she reached me- through telepathy.

    "Kayles." My telepathic voice was mostly similar to my physical one: always silvery and mellow and soft, no matter what I did, no matter what song I sang. Only it was a touch lighter than it already was. It worked in our favor here. "Calm down, think, breathe, and look," I said to her, smoothly, and as soothingly as I could. I paid attention to the path I was going to take to the nearest platform. "Look, and I mean: really look. Closely."

    In my mind I could feel her slowly calming, slowly coming to the understanding.

    "We are going to burn," she said.

    "We have burned before. That''s why we''re still here."

    "What did they inject into us?"

    "Can''t think about that now, Kayles."

    The gong sounded.

    I somersaulted forward onto a tile and instantly wished that I hadn''t- as the podiums all crumbled to dust that seemed to be blown away, by some wind that no one there could feel. It wasn''t fire, at least not real fire; no fire sparked and sizzled and seared and hurt like this fire did.

    My mind kicked itself into overdrive; the pain was blinding- physically and mentally. The latter was a problem because I needed to think clearly.

    I heard other kids wail and scream and cry as the sound of bodies hit the poison-covered concrete far below us. I didn''t look down.

    Forward, or die.

    A strange combination of yell, growl, and animal howl tore out of my throat and resonated in the seemingly empty space above tile-level. I was in pain, so much pain, a murderous amount of exceedingly unimaginable agony and sickness- like my Achilles'' tendons were snapping themselves repeatedly on a frying pan- but I needed a few more seconds to identify the squares that had those insanely subtle markings- cracks- on them.

    What an indicator. What a way to help us, help us stay alive. I didn''t know what this was. I just wanted out.

    Did I tell you there was no "out" and it wasn''t over for three months?

    "Move slowly," I said to Kaylee, through our minds. It was a tug-of-war between extreme pain, or death. "It''s temporary, Kayles. The pain will eventually stop. Think about your next move-"

    "I can''t!" The sounds in our heads; her telepathic voice almost paralyzed me completely. Someone''s pain could travel, you experienced it, when you communicated with telepaths this way.

    "You can or you will die and I will lose you!"

    I spotted my next glass tile as the beastlike, animal instinct to just survive, the instinct probably ingrained into my very being by generations and generations and more generations of people who liked to cause war, took over entirely.

    It was a torture chamber, just one of many in the awful, awful thing they called Experiment Nightingale. That day it looked like a chess board: children made pawns in a fire of agony and shards and dust and blood; children made pawns under the hands of adult humans- the ones that were supposed to protect them.

    Like I hadn''t already been in that setup.

    The corners of my field of vision were changing colors, from some deep shade of violet, and then a painfully bright white, and then back again and back again.

    Left.

    Forward.

    Left.

    Left-

    Somewhere in all the pain, my two existing brain cells called out to me. I breathed as deeply as I possibly could- which was not deep at all because of the pain- and took one look around me, at the faint, faint little lines of the cracks in these dark glass squares.

    "Kaylee!" I screamed her name, out loud, so that others that were still alive might hear me. "Left, left..." I lurched, sideways, gasping for breath and heaving my own body onto the next square. The glass didn''t shatter, didn''t crumble and burn to dust and then ashes and fall- but that had nothing to do with my weight. I knew, then. "Left, then forward! Find the ones with cracks in them- if one''s in front of you, take it, and the next three correct tiles are always the ones on the left!"

    Somehow in all this chaos, something caught my eye, just for a fraction of a second. Far at the den of the adult torturers- a man, it seemed like, I couldn''t really tell for sure because they all wore masks or helmets- with long straight hair, almost scarlet in color... or maybe it just looked that way to me at the time. I wouldn''t know.

    Did I imagine it, or did he say my name? Call out to me?

    I guessed I did just imagine it, because before I even looked away he had already walked out their little terrace, and back into... wherever. Whatever was behind the far walls. Laboratories, I assumed? I wasn''t sure I''d ever find out.

    Halfway between these thoughts, and clouds, and affliction, I performed my one last maneuver of that day- a front layout full in, pike out- and onto the marked-off green platform; the exact same one that I had set my sights on while still on that no-longer-present podium. I landed a perfect stick with both my feet together, not realizing they both were already broken.

    --

    Don''t wait for my answer

    Don''t call back

    Got none for you

    More silver, no bullets

    The wolf cries

    When I touch you

    Give it up when it all comes to an end

    Because I''m not fighting for you

    --

 --XXXII--

    --XXXII--

    MONDAY

    7:46 AM

    Thornton Building

    OMG DOGGY YAY!!!, screamed a voice in my mind.

    Mine.

    Happy the raccoon bounded instantly up and onto my shoulder, like a cat that needed to climb up a tree to avoid a mutated coyote-wolf hybrid- the kind you occasionally still saw in some areas of V6 and V8. The Samoyed followed minus the climbing up on top of me.

    "I''m calling you Jupiter Two," I said to the dog.

    Jupiter was an Alaskan Malamute we had before Crayon or Skittles. He didn''t die of old age or natural causes, either. Good thing Emberion didn''t just randomly incarcerate these two or else I would''ve ignited him in the balls. The Samoyed looked up at me with its tongue out, wagging its fluffy white curled tail and alternately flapping its ears. I knelt on one knee and patted its head.

    "Awwwwww!" I squealed, the way I almost always did around virtually any dog. "I''m sorry," I said to the Samoyed, and the raccoon, "but neither of you can come with me right now!"

    The Samoyed cocked its head.

    "You can''t come with me," I repeated.

    Almost in answer- and much to my surprise- the dog turned to face the tile-and-cement wall, barked at it, and then offhandedly opened its jaws to projectile vomit flame at it.

    PROJECTILE VOMIT FLAME at it.

    I had to stand there and process what I just saw.

    Same labs whe'' they expeeyimented ahn us, Ember had said.

    My jaw dropped but only barely.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    "Okay," I said. "So..." I was still wrapping the rest of my mind around how simultaneously perplexing and bothersome, yet also riveting, these... results were. I cleared my throat, flexed my fingers, and continued. "A fluffy, adorable, fire-breathing... doggy."

    "Samoyed," Ember said.

    "YES EMBER I KNOW WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE," I replied. "Does the raccoon... shoot lasers or something?"

    "The ''yacoon iz a combination," Ember said, turning to look at me with a rather grim look on his slightly lopsided face, "of youse'' and the Davenport girl."

    I wasn''t sure how much information I could handle at once.

    "Which means?" I demanded, yet not at all certain I really wanted to know an answer.

    From nothing at all and with only a very subtle flash of light, between its little hand-paws, our fluffy, brown, white, and gray friend created what looked almost like... a small, red apple.

    A slow exhale hissed through my imperfect teeth.

    A combination of youse'' and the Davenport girl.

    Was it, really? Could it? And if so, how? And if so, was it a coincidence?

    How could...

    I took a breath.

    It has to be a coincidence.

    "Okay, it makes apples." I looked at the floor, pressing the tips of my middle fingers to the tops of my ears. "I..." I paused, I took a breath. I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I don''t do that, I don''t make apples. I just tumble."

    Emberion took the tiny red fruit from Happy''s forepaws, casually took a bite and crunched away next to my ear.

    Within seconds he swallowed, and then he made some kind of sighing sound that to me sounded almost like relief- really sweet relief.

    "Ember," I said.

    "Thyea'' both male. Both move pretty fast. Should be helpful. New pets youse'' can take to the beach."

    "Just tell me, Ember."

    Jupiter Two sat down in front of me and raised his paw in the air. I wrapped a hand around it.

    "Chris," Ember said, "it''z not dat big of a deal."

    Emberion Myelantic put his hands, perhaps in his most comforting way, on my arms, just below my shoulders. The little apple core was still in the fingers of his left hand.

    Maybe not that big of a deal if you weren''t the boy that actually lived through Nightingale with exactly one other survivor- and wanted nothing to do with that trauma and that fear. No, thank you. Even if that reminder was a cute raccoon with superpowers. Even Kaylee wouldn''t need it.

    So maybe not that big a deal for Ember.

    He was talking, but I was in a fog. I shook my head.

    "Sorry," I said, perceptibly, gradually coming back into focus. "Say that again." What were we talking about, again? Somewhere in the last couple of moments I released Jupiter Two''s paw and he was holding it up for me again, but I didn''t move at all this time. I was a frozen statue with lungs and a beating heart. "My fault. Sorry. What was that?"

    "We don''t know," Ember said, very slowly, in a low and soft voice that almost didn''t belong to him- save for the very conspicuous Vicinity Four accent and the rough, raspy speech- "if it''z coincidence. Maybe it iz. Da frootz take away pain, too."

    --

    Because to you

    It doesn''t matter if I mean it, no

    It only matters if it "sells"

    --

 --XXXIII--

    --XXXIII--

    MONDAY

    7:59 AM

    V4

    Nothing to do with Nightingale, please, repeated the voice in my head. Nothing. Please. Thanks.

    My head had the words on rewind and repeat as the sky- which just half an hour earlier indicated no perceptible incoming change- shifted slowly into a shade somewhere between turquoise blue and emerald green. Same was the color of the snow that was falling down as I wrapped my left hand in cotton bandages. I was told that thousands of years ago, the weather was "just a little" less unpredictable than what we have now, here in the Overwoods, but I wouldn''t know.

    Happy the raccoon nibbled on the biscuit I bought for him at Baker Joe''s, the small fluffy thing still perched on my left shoulder. Jupiter Two seemed to almost lead the way. The adorable dog knew the way to the mines; that to me was a whole other mystery in itself.

    Well... the dog knew where to go, right?

    I started calculating distance. I was five blocks south of the Webwork, and maybe about thirty south of the entrance to Windcreek mines, when my phone rang.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    "Midnight," I said.

    No answer. Except for some static.

    Jupiter Two trotted ahead and Happy followed him; I stayed in place on the sidewalk.

    Where was Malcolm? Where was Caleb?

    Did Kaylee already get there?

    Somehow I hoped and intended not to be second to the mines- though I knew I had to drop by the Webwork first. I already left Meadows a message.

    "This is Midnight, Union of Stars," I said into the microphone, quickly glancing at the screen to see that I was in fact still connected to whoever this was. The top of the screen, which usually showed the phone number calling, read "UNKNOWN."

    I could make out the tower of the Webwork from where I stood. I positioned my feet- right foot on the ground behind me, left poised on the asphalt in front of me, ready to run, and throw my half-turn takeoff.

    "If you can hear me," I said, "I don''t hear any response from you right now." I calculated my line. About sixteen or seventeen running steps before I throw myself onto my hands and back again onto my feet, my back to the correct direction, how high to lift up...

    I continued.

    "If this in any way U.S. related," I said, "and urgent, please reach James Tobler." I swung my free arm. "If this is one of my friends, I love you." Without further thought, I started running. "Either way, I wish you happiness."

    Typically I said I wish you happiness, sunflowers, love, and light, but I had a lot on my mind.*

    I didn''t usually believe in hurting people. There was almost zero exception- but if this was the same person who had hurt Malcolm, killed the innocent pets that harmed not a single soul, ever, and now potentially could be holding someone I cared about in their grip, I might not choose to negotiate.

    This threat wasn''t exactly new. People I loved were in captivity before.

    Silence. More static.

    No time.

    I disconnected, and then rebounded off the ground so hard it broke the ice inside of me.

    --

    *(Besides- that was said on my I''m-unavailable-right-now-please-leave-a-voicemail recording, so they''d hear it anyway if they called back.)

 --XXXIV--

    --XXXIV--

    MONDAY

    8:04 AM

    V4, Approaching Webwork

    I twisted in the air one more time, before making contact with the ground, hitting the floor with both feet facing the direction I came from and then whipping backward into two and a half twists. I rebounded toward Connor, who was already waiting for me on the ice-coated rooftop.

    "Thank you," I said. I hugged Connor, even though I never hugged Connor. "Connor, what do you have?"

    "IS YOU KIDDING ME CHRIS WHAT IS THIS SHIT YOU JUST BOUGHT ME-" said Sam''s telepathic voice before I politely shut her out.

    Connor hugged me back and held on for much longer than I expected him to, even though I released my own grip immediately after remembering where I was and where I was going, and after realizing I am going to smell like cocaine.

    Or whatever it was they snorted nowadays.

    He puffed megacigarette fumes to his right, away from my face. His auburn-and-blue hair was disheveled; whiskers swaying in the wind; all gleaming in frost from the turquoise-emerald powder snow.

    I wore black jeans and a green jacket and a two-dollar red shirt from a WARGET clearance sale- all totally soaked, down to the fuzzy cotton bandages on my hand.

    Soaked but on fire. Freezing but not cold.

    I munched on a crunchy miniature apple, one that Happy the raccoon stuffed into my jacket pocket right before I settled into my launch.

    I was blinking the snow off my eyelashes when my cell phone rang again. I immediately hooked my earpiece on and answered.

    "This is Marblef-"

    "MARBLEFUCKYOURSELF MIDNIGHT WHAT ON EARTH IS-"

    "IT WAS FROM TIANA NOT EMBER OKAY???" I said politely with multiple invisible question marks that I''m sure Connor heard, too. "OKAY BYE."

    I looked at Connor.

    "That was a lot of question marks," he said.

    No shit, high yeehaw.

    His eyes widened. "WHAT did you just-"

    "I said I love you now can you please give me what we have please so I can go?" I said.

    I didn''t even punctuate anything.

    AND I MEAN COME ON I DIDN''T EVEN SAY THAT I JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU HIGH YEEHAW

    He dropped his megacigarette on the snow and curled both hands into fists.

    There was this weird, distinctly-US whistle in his voice I physically probably could not imitate when he said, "You tryna sound like yer so haaigh and mighty now, IS YOU, MIDNATT?"

    Midnight. Man, at least say it correctly.

    He was, often, a bit similar with Sam and Henry in one aspect: the alcohol on his breath.

    I MEAN COME ON HE EVEN SOUNDED LIKE A HIGH YEEHAW

    "What are you gonna do?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "Take me to Waffle House?"

    YEAH TAKE ME TO WAFFLE HOUSE YOU PERPETUALLY HIGH YEEH-

    He shook out his left fist, and aimed it at my right eye socket.

    Guess what:

    I didn''t even try to move.

    Flash of light; pinpricks of sparkling, invisible sound. I stumbled back for a bit, set my left hand on fire, and stared at the flames. The sound of impact seemed to come to me seconds later, only after the actual blow. Some combustiflies and and their butterfire companions hovered over, attracted to the flickering firelight that surrounded my fingers. For a moment I stared at the small lightshow of flying sparks, captivated.

    Orbiplosions

    SHUT UP, STUPID BRAIN

    I used to keep those little flying sparks as pets, because the Lowdown was so full of mosquitoes and other parasites- both the literal ones and the other, otherwise-not-literal parasites.

    I''m setting fires...

    Butterfires often followed me around as a child. I didn''t know why, exactly. But they were never bad company- I loved them, and Caleb loved them, too. We were always surrounded by them whenever we visited the Port together. It was always just us and the beach and the flying lights.

    Combustiflies did that with me too, all that following around. And also some birds. And stray dogs. And stray cats. It happened less often when I started to work for the US, but not with combustiflies. I don''t know why they stuck around.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I spun in a circle, twisting into my left this time, barely leaving the ground and wrapping into the spin of a human tornado. The trail of flame, smoke, and golden-yellow light followed with each axis, like a comet''s tail, faster than a bullet, hotter than the stars.

    SHUT. UP. BRAIN!!!

    It crossed my mind that maybe Happy followed me around for the same reason combustiflies did. Or, perhaps, sources of light just like other sources of light.

    I found the ground with one foot while the other swung up and overhead. Three backwards laid-out rotations, to one full twist into a backwards rotation in pike.

    Both my heels slammed into Connor''s back, exactly where and how I wanted them to, and I just as quickly rebounded off of him into an immediate full-twisting double-tuck backwards as the impact pushed him onto the floor.

    As I landed without a sound, Connor stared at me like I was no longer person he knew the day before. Mouth agape, one hand on his stomach.

    "What the fuck''s gotten into you?!" he said.

    I said nothing.

    I didn''t hate fighting that day, because I wanted one.

    Regrettably, I knew why I wanted one. Also, I thought that that would be my first and only fight of the day.

    Spoiler alert: It wasn''t.

    I watched Connor stumble around on the frozen floor, one hand pulling at his neon-blue, half-invisible whiskers.

    I''m the one that got socked, I thought. Not you. Get up.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    The visible skin on my left hand started to change color from pale beige to dark red. That happened only if it was burning hot enough.

    More burning butterflies, mostly white and black, fluttered over towards us. I was their very small refuge from the frozen rain, and the thought made me smile. Combustiflies and butterfires often caused huge forest infernos- which, in the Overwoods, were actually essential for keeping the mutated basswood-aspen hybrids from devouring all of V6, all of V7, all of V8, and some parts of V4.

    I''m setting fires...

    That was better.

    Butterfires are to regular butterflies what combustiflies are to regular fireflies: highly illuminated, small-flame-versions of them. I wasn''t sure where they originated from, but I knew both butterflies and fireflies- at least the normal kind- were almost extinct. The only butterfly I had seen the entire year was the one tattooed on Torres''s face.

    Connor''s hands were empty. I wondered where his megacigarette went.

    "I deeen''t mean that," Connor said.

    One strand of my hair caught in my left eye. It was red.

    "I did," I said.

    I extinguished the flames and walked toward Connor, who was fumbling on ice and snow for his massive, synthetically-chemically-mind-altering-artificial cigarette.

    I kicked snow into his face.

    He was a slow attacker, yet a surprisingly heavy one. Often very predictable, too, which is why I provoked him to begin with. I stood still as a statue as he smashed the same fist into the same part of my face he did earlier.

    I stepped back, stepped back again, and covered my right eye with both hands. Blood trickled down between my fingers and dripped onto the rooftop floor, like red raindrops falling onto a canvas of concrete flooring, one made of ice, a canvas clear like the transparent part of any snowglobe, like the thermoplastic part of the boards of any skating rink.

    With only my left eye open, I stared at the ground, and at my blurred reflection, covered as it was in tablespoons of spreading red liquid.

    From miles above the water that I was deeply submerged and drowning in, Connor called my name. Both of them. I didn''t need to pretend I didn''t hear, because I mostly didn''t.

    "I-" he mumbled, "I- I''m really sorry, it''s not bad, is it?"

    I spotted the megacigarette on the ground first but waited until Connor picked it up.

    Only, he didn''t.

    And then, he did.

    It took him a full minute to realize that none of his insides felt like they were actually on fire. I spent that minute scooping up white powder snow, forming it into clumps, and then pressing the clumps to my face.

    Snow

    Yay

    I turned the cold white stuff pink.

    Or I thought I did, it actually just turned red. Still, to me, the coldness felt so unbelievably sweet. Indescribably so.

    Snow

    Yay

    Connor took a ridiculously long draft of the large, plum-flavored megacigarette for what to me seemed like forever.

    "Shit," he said, swirls of vapor and smoke combining in the air between us and repelling the butterfires, who fluttered away from his liquor breath in the falling snow before disappearing from view. The combustifly stayed perched on my elbow. "Shit," he said again. "Shit. Shit. SHIT!" He was starting to remind me of Sam Shilberg. The interjections of the mentally fractured. "Shit, I''m sorry-"

    I tuned out at that point.

    1) He wasn''t, he probably wasn''t, and

    2) I wanted it.

    Because that is me- sometimes, I like to get hurt.

    Not physically. Often, just emotionally. Often, I just need to feel the hurt to know I''m alive; that I even can feel. But that day was an exception, for what I believed were very obvious reasons. Those reasons still seem pretty obvious to me today.

    It wasn''t his problem.

    The interjections of the mentally fractured.

    Let me also just make this clear: by "mentally fractured" I also include myself. I am just as broken. I am not better.

    Yet at the same time I do remember thinking, But if only we could try to mend each other, not the other way around.

    "Connor," I said, "What do we have?"

    He blinked at me.

    ORBIPLOSIONS.

    You already won, brain. You can shut up now.

    "Just talk to me, Connor," I said, "Or The Ignite Part happens."

    His eyes widened. He didn''t like The Ignite Part.

    Just from the way Connor looked right then and there, I could tell he didn''t have a lot of very good news to tell me.

    Probably not, anyway.

    "What. Do. We. Have," I said.

    There you go. Punctuations.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Not sure," replied Connor. "But I- I think the perpetrator is... somewhere b''yond them mines."

    Beyond the mines?

    What "beyond the mines?"

    There''s no beyond the mines! Maybe a rock. Like, a big rock, or something. Maybe, a rainbow and a pot of gold.

    They also say that years ago that''s where the war started. The one which eventually led to Experiment Overwood.

    I mean, that''s what I''m told, so...

    Connor continued.

    "D''ya have any idea why?" he said.

    "Me?" I half-laughed, half-snorted. "And how exactly would I know anything?" I scowled for a second, then took a breath. "I''ve been off the case a week, Connor. I couldn''t even be where Sam was when she was hurt." I glanced over at my phone quickly just to check if whoever called had tried to reach me again. Nothing. "I had to find out later from Kaylee."

    "Y''know, James didn''t even want you to know anything."

    "Is that supposed to surprise me?"

    Connor took a puff on his megacigarette, and then huffed, clouds of almost black smoke mixing with the green snowflakes.

    "Let''s go inside," he said, still exhaling pure darkness through both nostrils and his mouth. "Bless yer heart. I''m freezin'' out here."

    "No," I said.

    He gave me a look.

    "Are you coming with us," I said, "or not? I don''t have all day. Is that all the info you have?" I closed my eyes, took a breath. "I''m sorry. We''re in a hurry here."

    A second combustifly- a pink one- landed on my arm, totally extinguished because of the weather, and I tucked it into the hood of my jacket to protect it from the snow. I wasn''t wearing the hood up anyway.

    "Where''s Caleb?"

    "We''re not sure."

    "Well, what else am I here for? Do you know where Malcolm is right now?"

    He shook his head.

    "Naw," he said.

    "Okay," I said. "Thank you. I''m leaving."

    "Someone has been sending letters to your desk," he said.

    "Belinda?" I asked.

    "No."

    "YOU?" I asked.

    He glared at me.

    "More threats?" I said.

    "Kind of," Connor said. "But... we think this perpetrator knows you. Almost personally."

    That was no information. Hundreds upon hundreds of messages from people pretending to know me and/or threatening to murder me and my nonexistent girlfriend have come in, most of them from the past two years alone.

    Interesting because I''d worked for the Union of Stars officially for only one.

    "Chris," Connor said, "D''ya know anyone from your..." he fumbled. He was crushing his megacigarette with the heel of his boot- he''d already tossed it onto the ground. You know, just like he crushed the one purple-and-bronze combustifly.

    "From my what?"

    "When you were, you know..." he said.

    "You mean from my constantly-abused-brainwashing-by-criminals-starvation-and-stomped-on-by-brainwashing-liars-sexual-abuse-more-forced-brainwashing era?" I said.

    "And Nightingale," Connor said. "From there, too."

    And that was that; that conversation was over.

    He and I already had one talk the night prior. And another one, too, when we argued about me not going to go show up and be a part of Belinda Klein''s investigation.

    GET REAL CONNOR. DID YOU REALLY THINK I WANTED TO BE THERE BECAUSE NO.

    No. And NO without necessarily needing any punctuation, as well.

    NO

    It''s one thing when you''re abused your entire childhood and your entire teenage life.

    It''s a less damaging- but still hurtful- other thing when you thought you trusted someone. You would have thought that at that point, I''d have seen it enough times to never trust anyone again.

    Remind me, what was one thing I didn''t like? People wasting my time. Most especially when something- something that mattered- was possibly at stake; possibly in danger.

    AND MAYBE BECAUSE OF ME, I thought.

    When Connor spoke again, he said, "I know I''m a perpetually high yeehaw." He held something out to me; he was offering me small object; I could barely see it and I only did with my left eye and everything was tinted in bloodred. In one of his hands there was a second, unused, massive cigarette. On its black, cylindrical paper wrapping, it read, DON''T GET TOO HIGH OFF YOU''RE OWN SUPPLY!!! LIMITED-EDITION SUPER SPEEDY LIME FLAVOR.

    First off, YOUR*

    Second: Ew.

    ????

    ??????????????!?????!!

    HE REALLY THINKS I''M ACTUALLY GONNA

    "I AIN''T GIVIN IT TOOO YAH, you half-assed half-trained MIDGET TUMBLING GYMNAST FREAK," he very literally spat at me. "Could ya just light my cigarette? Sam took my damned lighter ''fore she left the building." He stomped one foot on the ground, impatiently. "Go read a mind one time."

    I touched a finger to my right eye socket. It came away wet and red.

    I didn''t say it; I only thought it. Whether or not Connor Meadows was listening in, I will not say. I dropped blood-red snow from my hands and let it fall onto the ground with a slushie sound. Do you hit your wife like a perpetually high and drunk yeehaw, too? Does she hit you like a perpetually high yeehaw? Or is she too addicted to notice?

    I took the massive megacigarette with my damaged left hand; I used my right pinky finger and the warm, dripping blood from my face, and I finger-painted a smiley face on the paper wrapping of the stick. I put the megacigarette back in Connor''s hand without lighting it, because I knew that those sticks were very literally killing him. They were making him a perpetually more high yeehaw.

    And I faced northeast; I ran, and I vaulted off the rooftop railing without saying goodbye. I chose the Yurchenko onto the metal cap rail and chose the Shirai-II off of it, but remaining in flight with arms behind me and my blood raining down onto the earth below me. It would have been so nice if I had any sleep.

    --

    *Yurchenko usually means I hit the vaulting surface backwards; Shirai-II usually means I twist 3 & 1/2 times sideways/on the turning axis- once I''ve already blocked off of the surface of course- while still rotating backwards in the laid-out body position. (Or The Pencil Position, as I sometimes like to call it. That doesn''t sound weird at all, right?) Note to myself just in case somehow I forget. These gymnastics terms came from people who performed these flips thousands of years ago. And if you can''t read your own handwriting then FIND THE LIBRARY BOOK CALLED "THE OLYMP

    --

    This pen is running out of ink. What was I writing about? Oh, yes- the book called "THE OLYM

 --XXXV--

    --XXXV--

    New pen. WE GOOD, M8S!! Oh no so ungrammatical oh no.

    Was I writing about something specific?

    --

    MONDAY

    8:16 AM

    V4

    I was in the air flying toward Windcreek mines. My phone rang, and of course, it was Connor Meadows.

    "Do you have anything for me?" I said.

    "Sam is going to join you," Connor said.

    She was injured and yet still wanted to be there- a trait that she and I shared in the best of times, and in the worst of times.

    I nodded, though Connor couldn''t see it.

    "Okay," I said.

    I heard him exhale raspily. Probably more smoke.

    "And I''ll be there," he said. "You''ll need another undetectable."

    Still in the air, with sparkling blue-and-green skies around me, I smiled some sort of smile. Like, an "oh wow really?" and also a "well yeah why not" kind of smile.

    You know, WHY NOT ''cuz I mean he MOST CERTAINLY has the fists for it

    As you can see.

    Or not see.

    Pun half-intended.

    "Should I hang up?" I said.

    I was descending fast into my landing, colors of tall buildings lapsing by fast on both my sides, then turning into swift flashes of dark green intermixed with brown- the trees of the woods here. Some unmutated. Some... unlike the unmutated. Some way too large. Maybe because of their closeness and exposure to pure Vystir, or maybe also a result of experiment Overwood and the war- like in V8.

    Quickly, and with my right hand, I grabbed onto the long branch of an overly mutated scots pine, intending to swing upwards, northeast, and onto the large wooden platform that borders the mine''s least popular entrance- one Kaylee and I discovered on accident in one of our adventures years ago.

    One microsecond after my trajectory changed I knew I was headed for trouble.

    I''d calculated the extra weight of the biting water that soaked all my clothes- but not how the snow would affect my grasp on the branch. I lost my grip on the branch just a fraction of a second too early, now I had no idea where I''d land. I knew immediately I''d end up passing the platform where Kaylee was armed and waiting for me by about a mile, at least.

    I kept my eyes peeled, stayed alert, now needing to anticipate unfamiliar landing spaces I wasn''t familiar with. I twisted, spinning with my arms kicked out to slow my rotation, waving to Kaylee as I passed her, standing there on the elevated podium outside the entrance where I had initially expected to land.

    "Hiiiiiiii!" I yelled, maybe two seconds before my weight of maybe about 102 pounds finally pulled down toward the ground, but not before slamming into several overlarge trees that basically turned me into a molecule in appearance- a molecule slamming from one tree to the next, bouncing in a zigzag pattern until I landed somewhere near an old, abandoned hydraulic shovel, with a few abandoned mining drill rigs around it, and some more trees. I still landed on my feet.

    Well, I landed on my feet and then rolled into the hydraulic shovel.

    I don''t think I was injured- at least not too badly- apart from the heavily bleeding nose. I crawled, and then sat with my back leaning on the side of the hydraulic shovel. I pinched my nose shut and then ended up just having to swallow the blood, which somehow decided to just drip down and make its way to my esophagus instead.

    "Yay," I whispered to no one. "I love trees."

    And I really did, for the most part. I still do. I loved them until a moment later, when dark shapes emerged from the surrounding trees.

    Okay get out of here please like now, I thought to myself.

    Out out out out out out out

    But I stumbled, fumbling as I realized that a giant splinter had embedded itself into the inside of my left leg. It was a piece of bark from a mutated tree, half-covered in skin and half-covered in fresh blood. It was disgusting. Hideous. I debated pulling it out with my bare hands, but I wasn''t sure if that would only make it worse. I marveled at how black and how red it was at the same time.

    Maybe the blood that decorated my leg was somehow actually from my nose.

    Yeah, that totally makes sense.

    And I still didn''t know where Caleb was. Or Malcolm, for that matter.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    I reached through to Kaylee telepathically. And I knew that she sensed my tone and aura immediately; the kind of energy you get immediately upon connection with a fellow telepath, as long as their guards weren''t on and you were close to them.

    "Kayles." My telepathic voice was still a very mellow and very calm sound.

    Very, very slowly, I limped over toward one of the mining drill rigs. I wiped my hands on what Caleb once told me is called the drill boom, a rusty old thing on the front of the rig. It was broken and low, closer to the ground than it normally would be. I smeared my blood on it.

    "You''re okay, aren''t you?" she said.

    I stared at my own blood. Just like I did, just like I did thousands of times, most of those times during the three-month experiment they called Nightingale.

    Once during a suicide attempt after.

    "Nope," I said.

    "Can you defend yourself?" said Kaylee.

    My ignite was either unreliable or just extremely inefficient if I was badly hurt, or disoriented. It was a 50/50 in a case like this- my ability to inflict the intense burning sensation of pain upon contact.

    "I..." I said. I swallowed some more blood. "I don''t know if I can ignite right now."

    "Just turn it on anyway," she replied. "I''m coming to you, I''ll find you."

    Wings, the feathers black on some, and then a very dark shade of purple on others. Big wings.

    The Talon.

    I thought they weren''t supposed to be anywhere except Vicinity Eight?

    "Kayles," I said, a new degree of alarm spreading like plasma mixing into the already red effluence and aura, the energy I put into the telepathic binding. "Don''t." I took a moment to accept what was around me. "Talon."

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    I looked around, before speaking through the connection again. Some of them were larger than others. None of them under six foot five. People- well, partly people, I supposed- who were larger than regular humans, with sharp mouths, un-metaphorically sharp mouths that almost looked a lot more like...

    "Okay," I said. "They don''t have mouths. They have beaks."

    "What?" said Kaylee. "But they''re-"

    "Not supposed to be anywhere but V8," I replied.

    She spoke slowly. "So..."

    One of the Talon approached me slowly, like a zombie, a zombie executioner; an enormous red axe was held lifted in his large, insanely muscular arm. His eyes were the exact same color of my blood. Others followed, from almost all sides.

    Almost like that one time in Nightingale.

    Maybe there were even more coming from behind the drill rig...

    "We''ve been lied to again, Kayles." I closed my eyes for a moment. And then, I thought a fleeting thought out loud to where Kaylee could hear it: "We''re not the only test subjects that left the place we were supposed to be confined to." I stood on one leg, though thankfully adrenaline was now course through me, starting to make the pain just slightly tolerable. I was still dizzy.

    I coughed, again, this time with blood exiting my system through both my mouth as well my nostrils. I coughed again, then cleared my throat. I looked up at the sky. Light blue and light green, like peppermint bubblegum candy.

    "Charlie November Alpha," I said, "on the ignite situation. Arrowvine, don''t come here."

    "You''re not stopping me," she said.

    "I''m stopping you," I replied.

    "You wouldn''t leave me behind," Kaylee said. "Even if I told you to."

    I tried to see if the trees were an escape option. No, there were several more that I could see- and possibly even more, but concealed- up in the mutated sugar pines and the sequoias. Even if I was fast enough.

    I was going to have to fight, and probably die.

    "...don''t come here." I repeated myself. "You know those monsters back in the, um." I couldn''t say it; I didn''t say it.

    "The N-word?"

    "Um," I said. "Yeah."

    "Nightingale," she said.

    One of the Talon swooped above my head, almost decapitating me in the process. I just barely made it below the fortified drill feed of the machine behind me. It chopped that off, instead.

    "They''re almost like some of the monsters from that experiment!" I said, flexing my fingers, reminding myself I was still in control of them. "Only... a little bit different. Maybe." Without meaning to, I began to cry. "I don''t know. I don''t know anymore. I don''t know anything. I don''t want to remember anything."

    "Chris," she said, firmly, "just stay calm. I''ll be there whatever you say. Remember what you said to me in Nightingale?"

    ...what I said to her in Nightingale?

    One of the creatures, a different one from the axe-holder and the flying head-chopper, stabbed at me with some kind of almost medieval-looking pitchfork. Only this one was on fire and blazing hot; the entire weapon was glowing, searing orange. I sidestepped, parrying and pushing it away with my right elbow. Sparks flew into my face and eyes as I stepped backward, managing whatever distance I could from these monsters, grunting from the effort it took to move my leg normally and now the burn on my elbow.

    What I said to her, in Nightingale? That was a three-month long experiment; she certainly wouldn''t be getting any points for specificity. I knew she was reading my mind.

    "Kayles," I said. "Which night?"

    "Fifty-three," she replied.

    "I..." I was remembering other things that happened that night. That day of the experiment. It wasn''t the nicest night of my life and it isn''t one I like to remember very much. Kaylee should know that...

    Kaylee''s telepathic voice surged, powerful and blunt like a tidal wave of anger visible only to two telepaths in that moment, into both our minds- something she chose to do; perhaps she was trying to drown out my vivid memories of the nightmare that was Nightingale, or maybe her own, or both. "If we die we die together."

    I ran toward one of the Talon, no longer planning to attempt communication or negotiation. Right knee up, left leg behind, a twisting spin toward my left, and my right heel and fist both connected with the face of the creature- and the axe fell.

    It took me about two seconds to then realize- there was no was I could possibly lift it. It was probably twice my weight or maybe even triple.

    I knew that pretty soon that Talon man or Talon creature or whatever it was would be back up and simply wield the weapon again. And he was bigger than me of course, yet also bigger than all of the other Talon...

    Just like that one time in Nightingale.

    Or every other time.

    I looked up, and saw the extension of one of the rigs was directly above me.

    Did I want to kill one of them? No. Did I want to at least stay alive until Kaylee got here? Probably.

    With my relatively un-hurt leg I swung four hard kicks- using backward gainers- into the rusty extension, then landing one one knee and rolling sideways.

    I had only the time to get up as the drill boom and drill rod broke apart, the drill hammer falling precisely where I calculated it would- on the axe handle. I flinched as the handle snapped- it didn''t sound like a piece of wood breaking. At least not regular wood. It sounded almost like the snapping of a tree, magnified by ten.

    The Talon man whose weapon I destroyed let out an electrifyingly loud cry- some kind of crow noise but combined with that opera my class had to watch in third grade (which, by the way, nobody liked except for the teacher), and also combined with an audible, palpable, amount of agony.

    "Did a tree fall?" said Kaylee.

    Is that what it sounded like?

    "Answer: no." The Talon man got up, flew over to his axe, and got a grip on the blunt side of the axe head. He was still crying out, either unwilling to pull it free from under the broken drill hammer... or unable to. His wings were flapping like crazy, almost like he was throwing some kind of crow tantrum. "Question: Where are you?" And physically, to the Talon man, I said, "I''m so sorry about your axe!"

    "I... don''t know. I just followed the general direction you flew in," Kaylee replied.

    I didn''t eat anything for a week except for the three pieces of French toast. That stupid spray from the canister or whatever was still making me cough.

    I threw a roundoff and then a layout with a full, landing stuck on the shoulders of the second-tallest Talon creature and then double-flipped backward to get away from the biggest threat. I wondered what I did to it...

    I effectively landed both my feet on one of the monsters eye sockets and rebounded off of it. From the way it cried out after- and the little "sparking" sensation I felt in my heels- I''d guess my ignite was on. At least for the moment.

    But as soon as I landed, another Talon- I guessed a woman Talon, by the looks of it- grabbed me by both my arms. I kicked wildly- with both my injured and uninjured legs- willing my ability to inflict the burning sensation to work, but it wouldn''t. She grabbed arms from behind me, and like all the other Talon, there was no chance someone my size was going to outmuscle her.

    Then that other Talon- seemingly a male, the one that held the blazing pitchfork- was swinging his weapon like a lunatic, burning and stabbing the horde in front of him, anything in his way.

    To get to me.

    "Kaylee," I said. "Just don''t come here. I... don''t have a chance of surviving."

    I tugged one more time, hard; my arms didn''t come loose.

    I''d been tied to chairs or torture devices or to dead bodies, or even to Kaylee- but these were arms I had, seemingly, no way of breaking out of.

    "We survived three months of torture, Chris," she replied. "This is nothing. Stay calm, and just stay alive! I''ll find you very soon!"

    "No, I-"

    I closed my eyes- waiting, anticipating, expecting the crazed Talon man to shove the tines of his blazing pitchfork straight through me.

    "Chris?"

    I remember thinking maybe, maybe I''d see Skittles or Crayon again, or maybe even Marie, too. Maybe I''d meet a family that was for me; I wasn''t going to survive this, and I could give up the fight. Maybe I could finally have some sort of cute fox-like animal pet, like the one on that little trinket Sam Shilberg wore on her wrist.

    I think somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered, for a moment, if the murdered child I hadn''t met might be with them- would I ask for answers? Would it matter?

    Did I believe I''d see my parents again- my real ones?

    In that split fraction of a moment I felt maybe somehow I knew them; I''d just lost them so early. I wasn''t one to be dependent- never was, but an unusual sliver of helplessness and a longing for nurture or love had cut through me.

    I remember my eyes were closed, the wooden shard in my left leg, thinking that maybe it was no different from the experiment, afterward; perhaps, it was enough that I helped Kaylee survive through that ordeal and all that followed.

    Perhaps, it was easier to deal with. I was already out of Nightingale- me and Kaylee both.

    I remember thinking: Hey. I was going to kill myself, anyway... wasn''t I? Maybe, Caleb can catch the instigator of the murders.

    The only sad thought I can remember was that there were possibly still rings, abuse rings, exploitative hellions and firebrands- evil scum with no principles, no morals- that I still hadn''t stopped.

    Part of me waited- waited for the pain- both physical and emotional, to ebb; to stop and to go away.

    "Danny! What''s going on?"

    I remembering saying a prayer, the way I always did.

    --

    I felt something, and I wasn''t sure if it was the sensation of burning metal through my body.

    The Talon woman''s arms loosened on mine and, more muscle memory than anything else, I elbowed her hard in the solar plexus- with my left arm now- and spun into a left arc kick to disarm the creature in front of me. As it were, I didn''t need to disarm him, even as my heel smashed hard into his temple- because when I turned to look... the pitchfork was on the ground; embedded into the Talon woman''s face.

    I communicated telepathically with Kaylee Ann Davenport once more.

    The crazed Talon who initially held the pitchfork looked at me- his eye color was some type of red mixed with purple and some brown- and then flew away. He didn''t retaliate, after I attacked him out of defense.

    I felt the spark in my heel. I''d ignited him.

    "Kaylee, your sense of direction right now is maybe kind of crap," I said, "but I love you, and if no one gets here soon... I will die. Find Caleb and Malcolm-" I dodged fangs and claws from a Talon man that used no visible weapons, but he was fast. If he would be the one that would end up killing me, I hoped he would make it fast, too. Physically, I spoke the words "I''m not here to fight you!" which none of the horde seemed to really understand, or care about.

    "We''ll find them together," Kaylee said. She spoke her next words very slowly. "Marblefox, you''re still alive. And that is no surprise to anyone, at all." She gripped me telepathically with the sound of her words, like she was there and shaking my shoulders. "Radio silence. I know where you are; we both need to focus. Find a sharp object. Survive. Arrowvine out."

    Find a sharp object.

    Survive.

    I''d done this before.

    Find a sharp object. Survive. I looked around, hoping for something, anything. But I found nothing- there was nothing. And I couldn''t pick up that pitchfork, or the axe. And then, my eyes drifted to my leg, the left one. The one where a giant splinter from a mutated tree had embedded itself.

    Not again...

 --XXXVI--

    --XXXVI--

    MONDAY

    8:46 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    From injuries, to mind control, to Zapryekavil, to being told I was loved and appreciated and desperately, desperately wanting so bad to believe it...

    Don''t get me wrong; sometimes, I did. I did, at times really believe it- which to me was better than nothing; better than never, in my opinion at least.

    As I watched the horde of the Talon closing in on me- again- I sat just about unmoving, on the ground, letting the turquoise-emerald snow shimmer and fall down around me. I knew I was going to fight; I knew I was going to have to. I didn''t know where Kaylee was. Or Caleb, or Malcolm. I didn''t know the future. I still don''t. But, hey- I saved a little combustifly that day and from what the one surgeon-doctor-guy had said, and according to Caleb and Kaylee, and according to Wyatt (though that probably didn''t count)- I saved Elyza, too. And Elyza''s not nobody. While I worked for a union that I didn''t necessarily always understand (I didn''t think any of us really did understand... except for James, maybe?), I knew that the small fraction of the U.S. population that I held close to me were humans- humans with good hearts, the kind that to me had positive intents (though that intent didn''t always come in the prettiest of packaging).

    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    I wasn''t one that searched for much- just one that searched for the ones that are capable of love; the ones that are capable- capable of the kindness that makes us human.

    It was so much better than the Lowdown.

    I remember as I sat there, with the mutated shard of Overwoods mutated giant splinter thingamabob thingy buried in my one leg, I told myself that if I was about to get killed, I''d at least stopped several ring leaders of abuse or murders or drugs or trafficking already- one way, or the other. Sometimes that way was something I''d tell the board at the Union of Stars'' headquarters... sometimes not.

    I felt like, I had a few friends, a job where I was needed, people I was helping- and I felt fortunate, that I was helping constantly; that I was able to do so.

    It was more, much more, than what I had only three years prior to that moment.

    Welcome to my mind, I guess.

 the overwoods - full book pt 1

    I stared at the ground far below me for a moment longer, then turned to enter the building''s top floor.

    I was in the air, spinning with previously-mastered trajectory towards the rooftop door when my cell phone rang. I tucked my body, rotated forward, and met the ground with my feet to answer.

    "Hey!" I said in my most cheery tone. "You''ve reached Midnight on this absolutely beautiful Saturday night. Can I help you?"

    "Chris." James''s voice.

    "Yes, hi."

    "Belinda wants to take you off the assignment."

    "What?"

    "She just thinks you''re unsafe."

    "I can literally jump from a sewer and onto a plane. I think I''m good."

    "Sit this one out, Chris. You can help others."

    "I''m helping others by letting someone evil run loose? I''m sick of these people, James. It''s disgusting. Something or someone is going to stop them; it may as well be me."

    --ovw--

    The Overwoods

    --ovw--

    Day: not yet identified

    Time: not yet identified

    Location of event(s): not yet identified

    He turned, to face the back of his... of the capsule he was in. I wasn''t in one.

    Okay, this was too much like En Gail.

    Shit.

    I tried to slow my breathing. The man said nothing, and then... from what seemed like nowhere, he began to sob; albeit softly. I was so confused- and even more so when the next voice spoke.

    "It worked," a deep, resonant, gruff-ish voice announced. "He won. The boy''s forgotten us."

    --ovw--

    This page is also not in the right place. None of these pages are in the right place.

    --ovw--

    THURSDAY OR FRIDAY (Exact day not yet confirmed)

    Roughly on or around 7:58 PM, based on pages from the fourth red notebook. The specific time info for certain periods is not always complete.

    Some pages are still missing.

    Notes on day/time/location of events?

    Overwoods.

    The year before...?

    Between the Suburbs and the Everglades?

    There are songs and lyrics written in these records. The handwriting in these journals is disturbingly familiar.

    But this must be the actual first page.

    --ovw--I--ovw--

    I wasn''t planning to stay more than half an hour.

    "Kaylee!" I had to get her attention- she had the configuration files, and I had homework.

    Okay, maybe not homework.

    A man and his golden retriever ran past as I made my decision. I spotted a rock the size of my shoe, made sure the dog and its owner were far enough away, and aimed at the window. There wasn''t any glass to break.

    "Well," I whispered. "You made me."

    Strands of my hair- more black than usual- caught between my lips as I exhaled, aiming; calculating trajectory and line and distance. I felt fire inside my left hand as vapors of breath swirled in the wind, turning white in the frozen-yet-humid "summer" Overwoods air.

    "Made you what?" The voice was in front of me, as well as behind me, to my left and right and center.

    Tendons in my fingers twitched, particularly the ones around the metacarpals leading up to my left wrist. I glanced over at it to make sure it wasn''t still bleeding. While it was scarred and calloused from years of being tied with rope or with other rough material (or sometimes, mercifully, bed sheet fabric), it at least wasn''t gushing blood.

    Anymore.

    I put the rock down. "Made me waste my time," I said, but not out loud, and also not hushed. And also not with my mouth open. "If you''re going to read my mind, then please, can you AT LEAST do it faster next time?"

    We weren''t glaring at each other- at least not physically. Though whenever we did, I''d usually match her stare with mine until we''d both explode in hysterical fits of laughter.

    This wasn''t one of those days, though.

    I heard her voice again.

    "Do you have it?" This voice of hers was the sound of a hundred trees in a forest; like the sound of a willow if you spoke to the willow alone under a blue Overwoods moon and she spoke back to you on a very desperate night. Me and her, we shared a lot of those nights. "Tell me you have it."

    I looked up, towards the moon. I always did that.

    "Yes," I replied.

    Often that moon was half white and half purple.

    "Come upstairs," she said.

    In pictures the moon used to be so much smaller, or it seemed so to me. It must have looked different in the past. Or perhaps it just looked different in other places. In the Overwoods it was massive; sometimes as bright as the sun- the two coexist, and usually both were visible at once.

    "No." This particular voice of mine was unique. Some told me it sounded like broken steel. Some said it was the sound of joy and love. Some said it was conviction. I always said it was the sound of anger. Because where love no longer exists, where safety is nonexistent, and where torture is inflicted and poison injected into your veins by demons who are envious, only God saves you. And then your anger carries you forward. Without it you will only die. "Meet me here before something gets set on fire."

    I waited for about a minute, then the front door opened. Kaylee stepped out and walked towards me. I almost flinched.

    She spoke physically this time. "I''m not gonna bite you, you know." She looked around. There was just a touch of nervousness in her usually bright voice when she spoke again. She smiled at me. Flirtatiously, even though I already knew that she mostly preferred girls. I suspected she��d say something dumb, like how her older brother might beat me up for spending so much time alone with her. Only one person in the whole world was more protective of Kaylee than her family: me. "Or maybe I should bite you. I know my brother might."

    So, as usual, I had the best and smartest response.

    "I''m literally gay."

    "That''s the problem," she said. "He likes you."

    EWWWW.

    I said nothing.

    "I really think you''d make a great brother-in-law!" She had this sort of lilted Southern US accent- something that was nowadays very common here. "Don''t you?"

    I said nothing.

    "Bonfires, Thanksgiving festivals, Christmases around a fireplace, you, me, Caleb, and the family? It''ll be so wonderful!"

    A combustifly, lethargic and slow from the green-tinted turquoise Overwoods snowflakes, droned its way by and softly illuminated my reflection off of a broken vinyl-and-fiberglass window. My eyes were still gray. Virtually colorless light gray, and still slowly returning to brown. A set of very ugly memories clutched my neck and the black elastic band that tied my hair back. It was impossible to breathe or speak.

    And then I heard myself answer.

    "I don''t... have a family." I tested the muscles in my left hand. And then the ones in the right, and then left again. I wanted to cut myself. I wanted to destroy the already-destroyed-remains of the planet. I rolled my eyes. "Kaylee, you know that."

    At that, she looked me dead in the eye, her eyebrows furrowed in... in I don''t know. Hate? Suspicion? Anger? Annoyance? Whatever. At the time, I didn''t care what she felt or what she thought; I didn''t have the time to. At the time, it was the least of all my concerns.

    And I had plenty. Too many, just to understate it.

    Her expression changed. Her eyes were almost the same shade and color as mine- except for the times when mine had turned gray, of course. And in case you''re wondering how that happens- don''t. Because either way, you''ll find out in a little bit. Whoever you may be, finding these black and purple words written in cheap ink. But let''s go back to that day.

    She lightly placed her hands on my shoulders. It was something her brother did to me a lot, too.

    A lot more, in fact.

    "Well, you have me," she said. "You''ll understand that one day."

    Me then, being the marshmallow that I still kind of am, had the best response.

    I said nothing.

    "Both of my parents absolutely adore you," Kaylee continued. "Especially one of them."

    Um, no, I thought to myself. I''m pretty sure one of them hates me.

    She essentially mimicked me, rolling her eyes at me this time.

    "Only when he''s drunk!" she said. "He hates everyone. You''re an exception to that; you should see how special you are!"

    I looked around us, from the empty houses, to the ruins of a school across the street. "Is there a reason we had to meet here?"

    "It was safest," she replied.

    "I have the money," I said. I was running out of time. "If you can give me the flash drive, I''ll be on my way."

    Kaylee Ann Davenport was the youngest of the Davenports; like me, she was 17, and we were both born on the twentieth of March. Caleb was her older brother. Their parents- Henry and Scott Davenport- owned a security agency.

    I took the money out of my wallet. "Thirteen hundred." I counted the crumpled paper bills. "If I remember correctly?"

    For a moment, she didn''t speak. She shook her head. Subtly. Her brown hair was as unruly as mine and twice as long. I remember tasting salt on it once. We were that close. I locked eyes with her. And then what she said was: "Keep it."

    I unhooked the elastics of the cheap, black polyester face mask I was wearing that day. People in the Overwoods still wore them, despite the fact that the last unanticipated pandemic was millennia ago. Or at least that''s what people told me.

    I only wore one to- and I say this in quotes- "fit in."

    I folded the black mask that someone insisted I wear. I did it for him, not for me.

    "Keep it?" I remember almost laughing. I''ve been played with before; it was never fun. Even as I write this now, it stings to remember. I considered throwing that rock at her. "Look, I can''t really even be here right now. Let''s be done with this, and go. Please."

    She took half a step forward and slapped me.

    I said nothing.

    "Danny, you don''t have to pay us." She took something from the pocket of her shirt. It was small, a metallic red. The flash drive. "Caleb talked to Dad, Dad talked to people, and they were able to get the files without having to do anything special, anything with money involved."

    She handed the flash drive to me and for a moment all I could do was stare at it.

    I was 17, a self-taught gymnast who wasn''t good enough to compete anywhere. I had no family. In a filthy and dangerous world; in a place now known as the Overwoods- once the most populated area in a place that a bunch of people once called "The Philippines" eons ago, but now completely destroyed and reduced to less than half its original size, gathering typhoons and blizzards and dust since the fallout from Experiment Overwood (and also now the only island left in the whole continent)- which as far as I''ve seen isn''t the best place to be. Though I wouldn''t know really; I''ve never been any place else.

    Either there was something in my eyes or my vision was going a bit blurry. The sun was setting; the sky was purple and red, and the water in my eyes was making it all smear together.

    "Which of your dads is the Dad that Caleb spoke with?" I said.

    "Henry."

    "Oh," I said. I felt stunned, speechless. It must not have had anything to do with me. I wasn''t important enough.

    Kaylee looked at me again, and without her lips moving, she said, "''Ew,'' right?"

    I cleared my throat. Though it wasn''t necessary- I didn''t speak again when I turned and walked away.

    The Davenports were telepaths, rich, powerful. Truly I felt lucky, to have anything to do with them at all. They had done quite a bit for me, and I was grateful, I still am. But it wasn''t me I was thinking about.

    --ovw--

    I was covered in snow when I arrived at Vicinity Four. I once read in a book from my school library that there used to never be snow here.

    I checked my watch. 9 o''clock, PM.

    It took me a while to make absolutely sure no one was around, then I pushed past a glass door and walked into an old, abandoned strip mall. No lights were on, but that I was used to. I was shaking when I removed my jacket.

    I allowed my eyes to adjust to the dimness and kept walking. "To West Wing Extension," read a sign on my left, a sign wrecked by vandalism.

    I''m told that ages and ages ago, nobody had any special abilities, there were no wars, all people were equal, and society was a safe place; society was a community, one you wanted to be part of. People lived harmoniously and respected each other regardless of where they all were from or what they looked like.

    I like thinking to myself that those of us who remain can make that happen again, that I can help make that happen, from my own sphere of influence.

    Whatever that is.

    Maybe I just think that because it keeps me sane.

    I made my way quickly through a dark, empty walkway and started up a flight of stairs by the emergency exit.

    I''m a telepath, but not like most- both in the sense that I don''t live in the rich part of the Overwoods (here they call them the Suburbs), and also the sense that it isn''t my only superpower. I grew up with Malcolm, the big man who works in the mines where they get those little Vystir crystals and who also works in the Port, where they carry stuff to and from the boats I''ve never been on.

    "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY," read the sign on the door I was about to walk through. "ALARM WILL RING IF OPENED."

    I pushed the heavy door open and went through. As always, there was no such alarm.

    I''m told it''s lucky we have Vystir in the mines, and that the Union of Stars would have blown us off the map completely and without hesitation if we didn''t have any. Vystir is used by people in the faraway Union of Stars for their experiments, done mostly on people, usually masses of people. It''s part of the reason some of us have superpowers, or combinations of them. Part of the reason there were still dead bodies you couldn''t touch.

    It''s also why I was there where I was. Malcolm had been in an incident where things went wrong in the mines. It gave him what they called Vystir poisoning- not very uncommon anymore, but unpredictable. You never know what it''s going to do to who.

    I started running through the hallway and then burst through a second door.

    "James!" I yelled at the top of my voice without thinking. There was little to soften the shout. No curtains, no carpet. Just tables and chairs, all black, most of which looked like they probably belonged in a museum. The room was lit only by screens and feeble neon lights, which glowed gold and formed a large rectangle on the ceiling. I was now at the Webwork- a colossal room of old computers that some smart people revived for whatever reason. Here they did... well, I didn''t actually know what they did. I didn''t want to know. I was only in the Webwork because that''s where I had to be. There was smoke in the unmoving air, because of people smoking cigarettes and who knows what else. The mix of smells was unfamiliar to me. "James, are you in here?!"

    Half a dozen people stared at me, from their desks, in a state of apparent vexation; another half were making their way towards me. They were men who wore dark clothing like me, but tattered, and where the sleeves ended the tattoos began.

    I wished I had a knife. Or a gun. Or something. But even if I did, I wouldn''t really have hurt someone else; I would''ve just used it to kill myself first if someone else was going to do it and make it too painful.

    --ovw--II--ovw--

    I like this pen. It''s nice to write with.

    It''s really long, too.

    --ovw--

    THE WEBWORK

    V4

    9:03 PM

    Status: Unavailable

    The man leading the pack looked me over. Between his Vicinity Four accent and whatever he''d been smoking all his life, I could hardly understand him.

    "Ain''t nobody see James with no permission, little boy," he said. "Get lost fo'' ya get hurt, or somebody decides you''re too pretty."

    I didn''t have to be told the meaning of that.

    "I have permission," I said.

    He half coughed, half laughed. "To get a drug? Look at ya. What''re ya, twelve?"

    "Seventeen."

    "And you here fo'' da Smack? You is throwin'' yo life away on da hard shit, already? You too young!"

    What?

    WHAT?

    WHAT DID HE SAY?!!!?!?!

    Excuse me, sir.

    I didn''t EVEN HAVE A LIFE TO THROW AWAY to start with, WHAT AN IDIOT.

    Thank you FOR ASSUMING I DID THOUGH

    Now please, please, PLEASE let me have the antidote so I can cry in peace!!!

    I thought these things to nobody in particular, with many exclamation points. Politely, of course.

    As always.

    Happy place. Happy place.

    Happy happy

    I touched my fingers to my eyebrows. And then I looked at my hands, and there was no bleeding, and there were no ropes.

    I took a deep breath before I spoke again.

    "I came here for the antidote," I said. I tried to say it with a steady voice but failed; I wanted to cry, but this was not the time or the place. "Malc-" I choked. "My dad''s been poisoned."

    You''ve visited here before, I remember telling myself. You were fine. You were fine, you were fine, you were fine.

    Well... I survived, is more like it.

    YOU WERE FINE.

    A moment''s pause. Then the man''s stare somehow felt less menacing; his voice somewhat less gruff. Or maybe I was just starting to not feel things.

    "New experiment?" he said.

    Now, did he REALLY have to go and say that word-

    I felt sick.

    Did he have to say that word NOW???

    Yeah, I know- I actually thought it with THREE question marks.

    Did he have to say that word *NOW???!*

    And then with asterisks, and an exclamation mark. And then with more capital letters, too:

    Did he have to say THAT WORD *NOW???!*

    No wonder that one publisher guy who was high on crack didn''t like the style I had in my mind. It couldn''t possibly have been the crack he was high on.

    <ol>

    <li>Wanted. To. Vomit.</li>

    </ol>

    "No," I replied, trying to maintain whatever composure I still had. I minimized my verbal communication; my next sentence was one word. "Mines."

    The man coughed- or maybe he was just clearing his throat, I literally couldn''t tell- and gave me what almost felt like a sympathetic look. But the green+black tattoo on his neck of a Beckler & Poch MPV5 Zaiofka machine gun was such a jarring contrast to it- it was like I was talking to the big bad wolf except that the big bad wolf is actually adorable.

    Adorable, and friendly, and fluffy, and cute. And pettable, like a dog. I mean, that''s what the pictures looked like in the library books. Well, to me, that''s how they looked.

    I think.

    I looked down at the man''s shoes, which were much less intimidating even though they were twice as big as mine and looked nine thousand times more expensive.

    That was when I saw the tattoo of an actual wolf above his right ankle, below the tattered end of his pants, and it literally looked like it was going to kill me and then eat me and/or feed me to its friends after removing my one brain cell, because it tastes like jellybean and bad wolves don''t like jellybeans.

    Okay I don''t like wolves anymore

    Sometimes, I think without any punctuation marks. Please sue me for it.

    "Shit," the man said. "I''m sorry. ''Sit bad?"

    "I don''t know," I replied. "I just know he has it."

    And then sometimes, I think random words that probably don''t even actually exist and probably don''t even have any meaning. And I don''t know why- they just... happen. I try to keep my telepathic barrier up most of the time, so telepaths can''t read or hear it. It would be SO EMBARRASSING.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    Like that. WHAT ON EARTH IS AN ORBIPLOSION?

    "Hey," the man said. And what he said next would''ve been scary, except it wasn''t in a scary voice anymore. I think he finally believed I was there with permission from James. "Look at me."

    I forced myself to look up at him. He had green eyes- a super common physical characteristic of those who are U.S. people from V4- and two scars on his face that were still in the process of healing.

    Funny, I had two scars on my face that were still in the process of healing, too.

    "Wha''dya have for us?" he said.

    I finally had a steady answer, one that I gave to him in a voice as loud as his.

    "Files. The ones James wanted? I have them."

    I heard people mumble from behind their desks. There was rumbling all around me.

    This place is creepy. 8 out of 10 of these people are literally currently on drugs. I want to go home and do some tumbling, maybe get my triple full twist combined with something super duper cool again! And then I''ll call it THE MUSHROOM. That''s a cool name. Maybe Malcolm has made my favorite French toast. OH, I LOVE FRENCH TOAST SO MUCH! MMM, SO YUMMY.

    I licked my lips.

    "You?" the man said. "The one who''s getting us the info is you?"

    "I don''t even know what I''m getting you," I said. "But I have it. All I want is the antidote."

    --ovw--

    James had long straight hair, some sort of shade between red and orange. His glasses reflected the light from all the screens in his office as he spoke.

    "...should last you about three weeks, maybe four." He unplugged the flash drive from a device I''d never seen before. "Come talk to me before then to get more."

    "Will I have to do something similar?"

    There was a touch of amusement on his face, a smile in his eyes, which were the same shade of light green as the ice cream Caleb bought for me and Kaylee, the day we graduated from primary school. It feels like it was just yesterday.

    Kaylee and I were in the same classes, and we also were in Experiment Nightingale- the only two survivors. It was aimed towards telepaths, intended to hone their abilities further, perhaps cause reactions that gave us more powers, make us more useful. It''s unclear if that experiment is why Kaylee can make plants grow from nothing, why I can touch people and take pain from them and leap unbelievably high and far. I wasn''t a good enough gymnast to compete anywhere- because I was disqualified before I could get on an apparatus.

    James arranged the vials in a box before me on one of his tables.

    "Something similar or even better," he said.

    I cleared my throat. Between memories of Experiment Nightingale and my thoughts of Malcolm it was hard to stay in the present moment. "I''m sorry," I replied. "What exactly do you mean by ''better?''"

    Before Malcolm came along I was prostituted as a child. It happens when you''re poor and you come from one of the worst parts of the Overwoods.

    "I mean that the experiment was a success!" he said, tapping the US seal on the badge he always wore on a chain around his neck. I had never seen James so happy before. "You..." he walked over and put an arm around me. "Are a success! The Union of Stars'' president will be so happy, absolutely ecstatic!"

    I wrapped my arms around the box, the vials of antidote that could very well save Malcolm''s life. "Can I go home now?"

    "Yes!" he said. "Come see me in three weeks."

    I made my way towards the door in a hurry. "Okay," I said.

    "Oh, Midnight, one more thing-" he said. He was fiddling with papers and envelopes in one of his desk drawers. "This is for you."

    He picked up some type of small object, and threw it in a long arc across the room and at me. I caught it with the top of the box.

    For a moment I was so worried it had maybe broken a vial or two, but it was surprisingly very lightweight.

    It was a badge, with a seal. Just like the one James was wearing. And it landed face up.

    I made out the words pressed into the silver material:

    "CHRISTOPHER MIDNIGHT. UNION OF STARS. AGENT LEVEL I."

    I looked back at him, confused, and so aggravated that yet another person was wasting my time on that day.

    "James," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. "This is for someone else. My name is Danny."

    Not that I would actually really know that myself, I thought. Another set of extremely ugly memories choked me from behind and wrapped heavy, disgusting fingers around my neck, and around my waist, and around my arms; I stared at my hands and then I stared back at Jamezo Monstro Methylo Acido Estero Benzo Carboxylico. Though at times I feel I might like to.

    He looked at me, and I had trouble reading his exact expression. Joyful. Ecstatic. The, shall we say, typical-on-stimulants-James, but also beyond that. It seemed almost like what I said was completely, totally hysterical to him; it was like he was about to throw a party because he won the lottery or something.

    Definitely like he just won something...

    I just didn��t know what.

    "Not anymore," he replied.

    --ovw--

    The Overwoods

    book one (FKA "episode" one)

    written by realnotperfect/Corgi on Discord/Danny "Myer" Mier for kicks, because boredom

    yas

    --ovw--

    --ovw--III--ovw--

    "Okay, so have you found the guy?"

    "Not yet." Belinda Klein was working investigations on the 5th floor of the Webwork, where I spent my working hours if I wasn''t in the US, or wasn''t with Malcolm or Kaylee.

    Malcolm didn''t need to work anymore now that I had money coming in, but he insisted, and I wasn''t going to take that away from him. Kaylee didn''t need to work, of course- her dads had the agency, which, as it turns out, was the Union of Stars'' Overwoods branch.

    It took Kaylee''s family and James about a year to determine if I was, and I quote, "what the US needs" to help carry out certain operations. They all knew I was never going to participate in any experiments or conducting them, so they assigned me to help work criminal investigations. At least for now.

    I wasn''t even very useful in my opinion. They just needed me for random fancy things where a person with no superpowers might have trouble. Areas where someone needed to get in somewhere quick, and get out quick; situations where a person physically had to obtain evidence or information fast and without jeopardizing the entire investigation. Fun happy stuff.

    I felt like a charity case. Maybe I did have superpowers, but personally I felt as though I was no one special. Just someone lucky enough that people wanted to help me. These other people, working in the US, were either rich, born in the US, had a ton of master''s degrees, or all three.

    I was none of the above, and standing there thinking about it all, I could feel my anxiety and PTSD and insecurities mixing all together at once. I wonder what these people saw in me.

    "You know where the suspect was; you know both the hotel and the room he was in, but still don''t have the suspect''s name?" I asked Belinda. Her hair was the same dark black as mine, but dyed pink. I didn''t even know if that was allowed in the agency. You could see the roots growing in; some of them were gray and not black. "It''s been a week since the murder."

    "These answers don''t come in a day, or a week, or sometimes even a month, agent Midnight."

    That''s what they see in me, I suppose. Christopher Midnight, the name they gave to the boy who had been close to death on more than a few occasions, the boy who survived pain, hunger, and violence; the one who survived Experiment Nightingale.

    I mean, Kaylee survived Experiment Nightingale, too. But her skills were very different from mine.

    "Do I go home?" I said.

    It had been almost year since I did that first favor for James, and I was happy with the name they gave me, mostly because I never even knew what my real name really was... or if I even had one. Danny was just what I called myself. To me, it was nice, to feel that I belonged somewhere, belonged to people, who knew me and trusted me and had a name for me, people who knew where I was needed.

    I am enough. Maybe I don''t feel it right now, believe it right now. But one day I will.

    "Paperwork," Belinda said. She means the ones I''m qualified to work even without earthshattering master''s degrees. Apparently I can write. Apparently my grammar is sort of okay.

    "And then?"

    "Dip the gloves in the sterilizers. Then you can go."

    "Okay," I said. I used to always feel I didn''t know who I was, or what I was. I''m lucky Malcolm mitigated that early. Kaylee came along, and her family, and James and the agency. I wasn''t lost anymore, or at least I wasn''t as lost as I used to be. I looked back at Belinda, before sitting down. "Belle."

    "Yes?"

    "You said our suspect had a nickname?"

    "It''s only a hunch, a theory."

    "An assumption, yes. What was the nickname?"

    "The Manila Maniac."

    I physically cringed. "Really?"

    "Yes." Belinda looked at me and smiled. "Pathetic name, isn''t it?"

    "Where is it from?"

    "The location of this murder and other unsolved murders are all in an area called the Lowdown; thousands of years ago it was known as Manila."

    "I know." I paused. Then I sat down, and ran my fingers along the sheet of paper in front of me. "I used to live there." I had to take a moment to think, to remember things I can''t erase or push aside. To accept them, and carry on best I could. Essentially I was frozen in the past for just a moment; this was something Belinda Klein was now accustomed to, having worked on the same team. She could tell from my eyes. I cleared my throat. "What makes us assume this was the Manila Maniac?"

    "Victim was female, about fourteen years old-"

    "Decapitated?"

    "Yes, Midnight, decapitated." She gave me a look. "And as I''m sure you''ve heard, this isn''t the first dead body of a very young person found in that area, with its head cut off."

    "Weren''t there three others?"

    "Sixteen others. Thirteen just weren''t as popular, weren''t made as public."

    "And they''re not all women."

    "Correct. In fact, eleven of the seventeen were male."

    "Signs of abuse?"

    "Rape."

    I put my hands together in front of me. Hadn''t I dealt with people like this before? Before I understood anything? Was I fortunate to have walked out of the situation I was in with two working legs and a beating heart?

    "The address," I said. "Give me the address."

    Belinda tied her pink hair into a knot.

    "Belle, the address, please."

    "You don''t want to do this." Her attention was on her computer screen. "And you''re eighteen."

    "What does my age have to do with this?"

    "Chris," she said. "You''re young. You''re traumatized. And it''s only been several years since you left a bad situation."

    "Don''t talk to me like that."

    She took a ballpoint pen and a sticky note, scribbled on it, and slammed it onto my desk with her right hand. "All right, your choice," she said. Unfinished papers flew onto the floor. The tattooed snakes on her forearm stared at me with red eyes. Ladders and snakes, roses and thorns. All in color.

    She stalked back to her computer, and I could''ve sworn the entire planet could hear her keyboard when she started typing on it again.

    I took the sticky note.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    There was an edge to her voice now. "Tell James I told you not to, when you go crying to him."

    "I''ll do that," I said. "Thanks, Belinda."

    --ovw--IV--ovw--

    "Midnight!"

    Kaylee was in a dress, a beautiful thing, it was light pink and studded with what looked like thousands of tiny little diamonds to me. It came straight from the US, and cost $500.99. I know because I''m the one who bought it for her.

    "Kaylee," I said, grinning. I didn''t hesitate to embrace her. She and her family had done so much for us. Next to Malcolm, she was the best friend I had in the entire world.

    I remembered Experiment Nightingale. We were tied to chairs... all of us. None of us was older than twelve. The being tied to a chair wasn''t necessary for me; even then, I knew there was nothing in my power that I could do to stop the experiments. I didn''t know if I was going to live or die that day, I didn''t know if I cared. I was being prostituted for money and food then and I didn''t know if I cared to keep going. That in itself makes you feel messed up, makes you feel afraid of everything. Kaylee was crying. Sobbing and shouting about how her parents were two of the top men working somewhere with some kind of authority. But it wasn''t enough. Kaylee and I were the only ones from the experiment still alive after three months.

    Kaylee looked at me. Her eyes were brown, like mine, like her dad''s. They were filled with tears. "Thank you so much for the dress," she said.

    "You''re welcome," I said. I had to try hard not to cry; she was always kind, and beautiful, without trying to be. She was one of those people you always wanted to be around. And she always told me I was one of those people, too, but I didn''t know if I agreed. "Thank you for saving my life. And Malcolm''s."

    "You saved your own life. I just had to talk to people."

    Caleb was standing in the doorway. I saw him by the golden light of their living room, which was spilling out onto the porch on that warm Friday evening.

    Kaylee looked at him. "Jealous, Caleb?" she said.

    I laughed, harder than I had ever laughed before. It was ridiculous. But not without merit.

    "Shut up," said Caleb.

    "Yeah, I know you are!" Kaylee replied. I know she found it funny; it was all that mattered to me.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--

    She started walking towards the house. I waved hello to Aurelio, one of the men employed to guard the perimeter. He waved back; he always greeted me with a smile.

    I loved the Davenport residence. It was beautiful, made from glass and marble and maple and mahogany and oak and stone and all sorts of things I had no name for. From where I stood I looked up at the chimney, which jutted out from the glass roof. I was transfixed; chimneys captivated me. I''d only ever seen five of them, four of them when I was assigned work in mainland US. Every curtain that I could see above the ground floor was dark red. Red was my favorite color. I smiled.

    The four-story masterpiece was one of few places in the Overwoods where I knew I was safe. Just like Malcolm''s house in the Port, it was home to me. And when you combine that with the fact that I didn''t have one at all until I was fifteen, it wasn''t just amazing; it was a sanctuary.

    A sanctuary with, in my opinion, the kindest and nicest four people, ever. Though occasionally Henry got too drunk and started arguing with anyone who would listen about how telepaths only should be allowed to hold positions in government.

    I didn''t know about that. And I only ever read minds to preserve my life or someone else''s.

    I wondered what mind reading politicians did. I wondered what politicians did at all. I wondered what they talked about, what they ate for dinner.

    They''re people, like us, aren''t they?

    Kaylee giggled as I followed her up the steps; she spoke to me in a hushed tone.

    "You know, Chris, he really loves your smile."

    "Must be the dimple," I replied. "My teeth are fucked."

    "What? No, they''re not."

    "You don''t see them like I do."

    "Yeah, I''m not sure anybody does." She shot a glance at me as we walked up. "Especially not Caleb."

    We were outside the door now; Caleb was standing directly in front of me, his eyes on mine. They were some sort of color between gray and blue. They reminded me of the ice-covered sidewalk I once slipped on.

    He was a foot taller than me at minimum- which made sense, because I was five foot three, at most. I had to look up whenever he spoke to me.

    "Howdy," he said. He had a thick and heavy US accent, of course, but it was slightly different from the one that Henry and Kaylee shared. It fascinated me. He looked like Scott; they were both tall, dirty blond, blue-eyed.

    "Hi," I said.

    "We heard you apprehended someone," said Caleb. "Good work."

    "I... didn''t apprehend anyone," I said. "I just kept someone from getting hurt."

    He means from two weeks ago. A man was yelling in whatever language it was and shooting people with some sort of makeshift revolver. It''s not like I was gonna stare and do nothing. Fortunately no one was killed; I only needed to do one hop. That''s what I called it. I just jumped on him.

    "I''m still proud of you," said Caleb. "You saved lives. It''s what you do."

    "You''re giving me too much credit."

    "Am not."

    "I''ll go leave you two alone!" squealed Kaylee, quirking her eyebrows at us and stepping inside.

    Caleb and I stared at the doorway. For what felt like five minutes we listened to Kaylee still laughing inside.

    "How''s James?" said Caleb. "Anything new with the Webwork?"

    "James is..." I didn''t know how to put it. "James is as you would expect him to be, I guess." I loved James. I didn''t want to say anything bad about the man. Bad karma.

    "Of course," said Caleb. "On stimulants."

    "I don''t know. Probably." I remembered something else. "Somebody told me Chaquille overdosed."

    "Interesting." Caleb grinned. "He''s not there to tell you that you''re a little twelve-year-old boy looking for drugs anymore?"

    "Not recently," I said. "I haven''t seen him for a month."

    "And you still work with Meadows," said Caleb.

    "Meadows," I said. "And Klein."

    "Belinda?" said Caleb. "She''s a bitch."

    We heard some shuffling upstairs, and then Kaylee was back. Well, sort of. We saw only her head, peeking out of a second-story window.

    Out of thin air, she created some sort of little handful of leaves. She placed it on the edge of the windowsill.

    I stared at it. Kaylee looked at me, expectantly.

    "I don''t get it," I said.

    "It''s mistletoe," said Caleb.

    "What''s that?" I said. "What does it do?"

    "Never mind," said Caleb.

    Kaylee waved her arms from upstairs.

    "Chris, make sure you DON''T read his mind!" yelled Kaylee. "Trust me, it''ll be SO uncomfortable!"

    I was silent. I didn''t know if I was blushing red, or green. Caleb was blushing red for sure; I could see it, and he was glaring. I didn''t hear him sound angry too many times, but this was one of them. "I am going to make sure he never buys you anything!" he yelled back. "Anything, ever again!"

    Kaylee stuck her tongue out, shut the window, and disappeared from view.

    --ovw--V--ovw--

    I stared at the window.

    Caleb stopped glaring, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them. His gaze rested on my face.

    "How-" he said muttering, then shifted to a deep and irritated voice. "How on earth is that girl your best friend, Chris?"

    "Nightingale," I said. I succeeded at saying the word. And then I couldn''t look Caleb in the eye anymore.

    "Hey," said Caleb.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "I mean, I know it could''ve been worse- I mean, we lived. Kaylee and me. Everybody else..." I trailed off.

    "Chris," said Caleb.

    "...they''re dead. They died." I felt the need to prove I could say it; I could speak the words without totally jumping away in one piece of air while doing a some form of somersault with a full twist and then crying for 24 hours wherever I landed. Perfect score, yay. "And they didn''t die all at once, either," I said.

    "Do you dream about it?" said Caleb.

    "What?" I said.

    "Do you dream about it," he repeated. "She does."

    I stared at my shoes. There was something in my eyes again.

    I wanted to tell Caleb what I dreamed about when I do sleep: reruns of past traumas. Including, but not limited to, Experiment Nightingale.

    I also wanted to tell Caleb that sometimes when I woke up from them, I would think of him.

    I thought of Caleb, and it soothed my mind. It guided me back to the present. I thought of how he was basically the reason I had a job. How thankful I was that Kaylee had a brother like him, helping to keep her protected.

    How Caleb and I always visited the Port together, at midnight.

    I wanted to say these things; I wanted to express my deepest gratitude, express to him how much he meant to me.

    Sadly, I didn''t know how to do any of these things.

    "I dream about it when I''m awake, yes," I said. "I don''t sleep."

    "Come on," said Caleb.

    "I sleep a little," I said.

    He smiled, and locked eyes with me.

    "You know," he said. "I can change that."

    "Thanks for the jacket, do you want it back?" I said, both subconsciously and automatically trying to look for a way out of the new subject at hand, as well as searching his eyes, in an attempt to read him, read where his heart was when he said those words. I was already removing the brown cotton jacket. It was always really easy to take off, too, because it was so huge on me.

    He put his hand firmly on my arm, stopping me.

    "It''s yours," Caleb said, slowly. There was a slightly pleading tone in his voice when he said it. It melted some of my defenses. I still had thousands. "Keep it," he said. "Please."

    The wind was warm; things weren''t all frozen over, the way they usually were on most late Marches. Weather in the Overwoods: your number one source of unpredictability.

    "Okay," I said. "I''ll keep it."

    "Thank you," said Caleb.

    "You''re welcome," I said.

    We stood there, on the porch, silent for a while.

    I rolled my eyes up to the shade above us. I sniffed. I cleared my throat, and said nothing.

    He took my hand, and locked his fingers between mine. I think he did this whenever he felt he needed to drag me back into the present, or something. "You''re stronger than you think you are," he said softly. "And you''re not alone anymore."

    Either he read my mind or my flashback moments were now obvious to him.

    I still said nothing. I didn''t know what to say. I stayed frozen for a moment longer, having to deal with Experiment Nightingale and other memories as well as my amazingly phenomenal awkwardness.

    The truth is I didn''t want to push anyone away or reject affection; I didn''t want to act like I didn''t need anything, or like I was this extremely independent and invulnerable and invincible teenager.

    Because I wasn''t.

    Yet unfortunately I had been in maybe a few too many unpleasant situations. I felt like for me certain emotions were difficult, perhaps even dangerous. Malcolm and Kaylee had come close, Caleb on several occasions.

    Caleb smiled. He didn''t have any dimples, like me. What he did have was funny yellow stubble. I remember touching it once, in a moment when I just really wanted to. I hope he never asks me about it.

    He pulled me inside the living room with him.

    "You''re still wearing my jacket," he said. "Even on a warm day."

    I saw Scott waving hello to me from the kitchen. I smiled and waved back. He was affectionate and friendly and kind. It was always nice to see him.

    "I like jackets," I said.

    --ovw--VI--ovw--

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    I had no idea what I was eating but it was AMAZING.

    "How goes the job, son?" said Henry, who was across from me at the Davenport''s dining room table.

    It was like a cheeseburger. It was like, a cheeseburger, only more cheeseburger.

    I smiled. I liked food. Food made me happy.

    I looked at Caleb, who was seated beside his father. He didn''t answer the question.

    I spoke with my mouth full because I didn''t really care around these people, and because OMG WOW CHEESEBURGER YAY. OH CHEESEBURGER.

    "Caweb!" I said. "Enry athked you equeffion."

    Henry looked at me.

    "No," said Henry. "I asked you."

    "Oh." I quickly swallowed the mouthful of amazing cheeseburger. I wanted it in my mouth for longer, but, oh well. There was more, anyway.

    "Things going well?" said Henry.

    "They are, and I love it," I said while getting more lettuce from a plate. "I love being useful." I shrugged, and tried not to sound overly excited talking about it. "I love being somewhere, helping where I know I can. And James? He isn''t horrible to work with at all, despite all that I''ve been told. He''s a nice guy."

    Henry''s expression was neutral.

    "That''s good," said Henry.

    "What''s this about, dear?" said Scott.

    I remembered my conversation with Belinda. Henry''s eyes bore into mine.

    Suddenly I was scared and nervous. I had the sense that maybe Henry was reading my mind; I didn''t try to confirm it.

    "Dad, don''t do this," said Caleb.

    Kaylee scratched her fork on her plate. She was making baby corn plants around it.

    "You''re hunting someone dangerous, someone who is a murderer," said Henry. He took a big swig from his drink. "And also a rapist."

    Kaylee left the table. I subconsciously dropped my fork and started flailing trying to catch it. That was a mistake, because I couldn''t do it right and it ended up flying into the punch bowl and making the punch splash out of it, onto the potato salad. I ruined their perfectly good potato salad.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "What..." I trailed off. "What makes you say this?"

    Henry was finishing a piece of steak. He took a sip of whatever probably-alcoholic-beverage he''d been drinking for the past twenty minutes.

    "Belinda Klein messaged," he said.

    "What did she say?" I asked.

    "She said you''re going after a very dangerous suspect," Henry said.

    "We don''t even have a suspect," I said. "And even if we did, the suspect wouldn''t be any more or less dangerous than others I''ve dealt with in the past. I''m still here, aren''t I?"

    Caleb and I locked eyes for a moment, then I looked away.

    Henry took another swig before speaking. He tapped his finger on the bottle. "She also said you demanded to get an address."

    "I asked," I said.

    "Do you realize you''re a possible target?" said Henry.

    That''s all it took. I didn''t want to be at that table anymore. I''m not helpless, is what I wanted to say. I took a breath, and then responded.

    "We don''t know who it is," I said. "Belinda doesn''t have anything; there''s no actual suspect. Not yet, at least."

    Caleb spoke, only to me, telepathically. "You''re after a ''who'' again," he said. "Not a ''what.''"

    Henry was busy drinking his whatever it was.

    Caleb spoke to me again. "Hey," he said. "Am I right?" He sounded troubled, even through telepathy. "Chris, you''re not in danger, are you?"

    I looked around, from Kaylee''s empty seat to Scott to Caleb. No one was enjoying the topic. Or the food.

    A shame because the food was mind-blowing.

    I turned my attention back to Henry.

    "It''s Kaylee''s birthday celebration," I said softly. "Do we really need to talk about this, here?"

    "Yes," said Henry. He took another sip. "We do."

    "Dad," said Caleb.

    "It''s okay!" said Kaylee. She was behind me with two small bowls of chocolate ice cream. She placed one on the table in front of me. "You can talk about it here! And remember it''s not just my birthday celebration- it''s Chris''s birthday celebration, too!"

    "Please excuse me," I said. I got up from the table. "Caleb can have my ice cream. Thanks, Kaylee."

    I was weak, feeble; I fell apart everywhere. But this time I could at least keep it from happening in front of these nice people.

    "I can pay for the potato salad," I said.

    --ovw--VII--ovw--

    There were old discarded bookshelves to my left. To my right, there were piles of armchairs, a blackboard on the ground beside them, and some shrubs with pretty light purple flowers.

    A small red squirrel was scurrying about. It stopped and stared at me.

    I stared back at it.

    "Hi," I said.

    The cute little thing twitched its nose, and then ran away. My eyes followed it until it disappeared from view.

    I could let the water from my eyes fall here.

    I didn''t cry in front of them. Thank God.

    I positioned my feet against the broken wall of the school. I wondered if my family studied here; I wondered if I had one.

    Perhaps I didn''t have one; perhaps I was the byproduct of an experiment. There were so many. One experiment started on a November and concluded on a February.

    They called it Nightingale.

    "Chris!" a voice yelled, not far behind me. The voice was Caleb''s.

    I was torn between just going or letting him catch up.

    It was routine for me; whenever I visited the Davenports this was my favorite hopoff position, as I called it. One controlled maneuver off of this perfectly diagonally placed broken thing, and I landed in the most beautiful part of the Port, every time.

    I let him catch up.

    Caleb was out of breath. He had to hunch over, his hands on his knees.

    Suddenly all I wanted to do was hug him. I wanted a human embrace.

    "I can''t be near you right now," I said.

    "What?" he said. "Why?"

    "I just can''t."

    "I''m sorry about Dad, you know how he can be someti-"

    "You ran here," I said, interrupting. "There must be something important; say it now, and I''ll go."

    "I just wanted to say you don''t have to pay for the potato salad."

    "Wonderful," I said. "Goodbye."

    Then he grabbed my hand- typically I would''ve freaked out and ran at such sudden physical contact. But with Caleb, it was different sometimes.

    It took me a few seconds, as it always did. And then, Caleb wasn''t out of breath and sweating anymore; I was. I was out of breath and sweating and my legs burned.

    The little red squirrel came back, dropped an acorn in front of me, and then scurried away.

    There was something else I was feeling, too, it was some kind of pain, not so much a physical pain, but maybe more so a vague hollow ache somewhere over my chest, where my heart was. I couldn''t explain it.

    "Danny," said Caleb. He called me that, sometimes. Either I liked it or I didn''t care. "You really don''t have to do that for me, you know."

    "I''m only doing it because I love your eyes and I think they''re a really pretty color," I said.

    "No." He pulled me closer to him. "You''re doing it because you love me."

    I smiled.

    "Okay," I said. "You win."

    I closed my eyes; it wasn''t easy staying in that moment, but I did, and I did it for as long as humanly possible.

    "Danny," he said. "You''re not reading my mind, are you?"

    "No," I said. "Of course not."

    "Okay," he said. "All right. What are you thinking?"

    "I''m thinking love is so overrated," I said.

    "I''m thinking that''s just you putting walls up," said Caleb.

    "Speaking of walls, there''s a wall I need to go and literally hop from." The burning in my legs was starting to ebb, but the strange feeling, the unexplained one over my chest, was just as profound and confusing to me now as it was earlier. "Caleb, there''s some kind of a feeling, somewhere in your chest almost? What is it?"

    His eyes searched mine. He said nothing.

    "Are you gonna tell me?" I said.

    I looked at the sky; it was dark and empty, save for some tiny silver-blue specks. I wondered if the Union of Stars took their name from the big bright burning things. They definitely used lots of hydrogen and helium, and burned things.

    ...I guessed it made sense.

    And I guessed Caleb wasn''t going to answer. "The stars are the color of your eyes," I said.

    "It''s how I feel when I can''t get close to you," he said.

    "Wait. What?" I almost did an actual facepalm. "You are very close to me."

    "Not close enough."

    My heart skipped a beat. "Wait," I said. "Do you always feel this way?"

    I felt guilt. Awful, horrible guilt. A person was in pain, and I, in some form, was the cause for it.

    "A lot of the time," he said.

    His voice echoed in my mind. Either that or he was telepathically telling me again; I didn''t know which.

    Not close enough.

    I was nervous when I spoke.

    "What''s closer?" I said. "Can I make it better?"

    In answer, he took my face in both his hands and kissed me.

    I was revolted. Or should I say- the broken parts of me, were revolted. The rest of me wanted it; I wanted it so much.

    It was a long time before he pulled back.

    "There," he said, softly. "You made it better."

    I had nothing to say. At least, nothing I could think of. I desperately tried to think of something. Anything.

    "Did I ever tell you how much I love the stubble on your face?" I said.

    He laughed. It was a really weird, really loud, really accented laugh. I loved it.

    "Yes," he said. "On at least one occasion. It''s nice to hear it again."

    My brain had completely shut down.

    If I had one.

    "Cool," I said. I did a thumbs-up gesture with both my hands, which were still shaking. "All right, I''ma go now."

    Just then my phone buzzed.

    I instantly was pissed off- I HATED text messages, absolutely despised them. The only reason I even had a phone was because I had a thing, called a job. Apart from Kaylee, Caleb, James, Scott, and Connor Meadows, no one else had my phone number, at least not that I knew of. Even Belinda didn''t have it. Maybe it was some kind of urgent e-mail?

    "Really?" I whispered. "Now? Tonight?" I was disgruntled, and I wasn''t trying to conceal it. "I swear, if this is Klein-"

    "It isn''t Klein," said Caleb.

    I looked at him. One of Caleb''s abilities was that he could manipulate almost any technology, communicate with it from afar. Technopathy.

    "What do you mean?"

    "Chris, I think you''re in danger."

    I shook my head. I fumbled for the cell phone. "I''ve been in danger before. I live in the Overwoods. It''s not new."

    I unlocked the phone. There was one new message on it.

    It was from an unusual number, a string of digits that didn''t seem to follow any format.

    I tapped to open it.

    Caleb stood next to me, so we both could see the message.

    "MISSED YOU

    CAN''T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN

    - M M"

    "Wow," I said. "So original."

    Caleb didn''t look amused when he took the keys from his pocket. In fact, he looked obdurate. Frigid.

    Expressionless.

    Even I was concerned then.

    "You''re staying with me tonight," said Caleb.

    I felt something creep up on me. Fear. A certain kind of it. But I was no stranger to it, either.

    "What do you mean?" I said. "Where?"

    "Dad''s office," said Caleb. "Scott''s. It''s more secure than the house."

    --ovw--VIII--ovw--

    Nightingale

    Day/Night #14 or #15 (Exact day/night not yet confirmed)

    Subprocedure Unknown

    There were no words for how cold, how empty, how completely removed from life you felt, when things like this happened.

    She was behind a screen to my left. It was tinted, and thinner than paper, but could not be penetrated. Marie, I thought her name was.

    I heard a voice: the same voice everyone else there was also hearing. It was a man''s voice.

    It sounded like the voice of evil itself. It was disembodied; it was fluctuating in the air all around us.

    "Those of you who were injected will need to obtain your key," said the man. "The key is the same color as your ID. It will also have the same number."

    We all had some kind of device, completely stuck to our left hands. I looked down at it.

    Pure white.

    But there was no number on it...

    Marie looked at me. She had a black version of the same contraption; it was marked in red with the number 74.

    "What will happen, if we don''t find the right key?" she said. "What if we don''t find a key at all?"

    I looked around for Kaylee. There were walls around us, but I knew not to be fooled; there were more. Only invisible.

    The voice spoke again.

    "The key will allow you to access the platform above you. That is where you need to go," said the voice. "Thank you for participating."

    Participating?

    I woke up here. I didn''t even know if I was injected on that day; did he mean previous injections in the experiment?

    Weren''t we all injected?

    A hundred times?

    I let go of trying to find Kaylee, for the moment. Either I couldn''t see her or she wasn''t nearby. I didn''t think that she was dead- Kaylee was too strong; too smart.

    I looked up. Dark glass walls and a ceiling. What platform?

    "How much time do you think we have?" Marie said.

    "I don''t know," I replied. "Find your key." I wiped tears off my face; I saw them but couldn''t feel them. I didn''t know what felt worse to me at that moment: not knowing where I was, being trapped, the pain in my chest, the pain in my wrists, or the pounding in my head. There was a bruise on my left arm and I had no idea where it came from.

    I looked at Marie. For a moment, I wondered if the fear in her eyes was the same thing she saw, on my face. And then I dismissed the thought.

    I couldn''t feel fear; I had none left at that moment. It had all been used up in the weeks before.

    "Find your key," I told her, in my best attempt at an encouraging voice. "You can do this, Marie."

    "You remember my name," she said.

    "Second grade," I said. "Science experiment."

    "You blew up the frog," she said with a laugh.

    It wasn''t me- the boy who blew up the frog was a non-telepath who could manipulate fire. Pyrokinetic, like Malcolm.

    I let her laugh without interrupting; I was happy she had something to smile about.

    When I saw Marie again, I couldn''t make her smile anymore, because she was a dead body.

    --ovw--

    "Midnight, the door! GET THE DOOR, NOW!"

    Belinda''s lip was bleeding profusely- she probably was going to need stitches. Her dyed pink hair was disheveled in its knot. Her gun was pointed towards the chandelier at the top of the large and beautifully decorated room, a room which extended from the lobby to the second and third floors of the hotel. Everything expensive imaginable was in it.

    "Connor and I can take care of the windows. Hurry, or this all was for nothing!" Belinda yelled.

    "Belle," I said. "There''s, like, a million doors. Could you please be a little more specific?"

    James answered me.

    "Lobby emergency exit," he said, in a voice so different from his usual enthusiastic chatter. It was even and steady. It was loud, yet soft at the same time. Firm but gentle.

    A shower of sparks came down from the ceiling.

    I admired this most about James; in an extremely heated panic situation, he was calm. He said I was like that, too.

    As long as the PTSD wasn''t kicking in at the command of some random trigger, of course.

    He was standing beside Belinda Klein, on the staircase. He was surveying the room before us. Concentrating.

    I grunted as I pushed myself up off the ground. There was a colossal mess of dark, almost black blood on Caleb''s jacket- a shard of glass had buried itself into the left side of my neck. There was another one, even longer, in my rib cage. I didn''t pull out either one.

    Belinda pulled the trigger.

    I flinched, and made some kind of a sound; I HATED gunshots.

    "Midnight, now, go," said James.

    "Understood," I replied.

    I took a breath, stood straight, and leaped off the third floor railing and onto the ground floor. The chandelier soon followed; James used it to smash the glass doors of the main entrance, destroying it. I watched debris and wreckage fall from the ceiling in front of me. Telekinesis, he called it.

    I bounded towards the emergency exit, and almost immediately realized I didn''t need to secure it- it was on fire. In fact, the entire hallway toward it was on fire. Nobody was going to be using this path as an exit any time soon.

    Whoever we were after was trapped.

    I ran back toward the center of the lobby. A man was standing there, looking the other way. I approached him, coughing and wincing.

    "Hey," I said.

    He turned towards me.

    "Hi, do you need any help?" I asked.

    Fortunately, he wasn''t injured, not that I could tell. Not as badly as I was at least.

    And then, something shifted. It happened slowly. The atmosphere in that room- the smoke, heat, the dust from the ceiling and the burning wreckage all around us- turned cold, like there was no fire; like I couldn''t feel the torridness. The entire hotel lobby started going dark, beginning with the floor, and moving up toward the ceiling. Our surroundings were engulfed in flames that seemed to turn, creepingly, into motionless black holes. Everything around us was turning into blackness. Clearly, something was going very wrong- I looked at the man, trying to make sense of whatever was happening, when I recognized him. Either it really did take me a while to put it together, or my brain didn''t process it correctly at once when he turned around. Standing in front of me was the man who had me prostituted.

    For years.

    I was a child.

    I didn''t know his real name, ever.

    I didn''t know my real name, ever.

    He looked at me with dark eyes, soulless eyes, and spoke to me.

    "Well," he said. "Hello there."

    I sometimes wondered if he was my dad. And then I''d rule it out, because we had no similarities, physically or otherwise.

    "You know, you''re funny," I said. "You said we-" I tried to think, but then, thinking was impossible. "You said you only did what you did, so we could live."

    "We did live."

    "No," I said. "You lived."

    I stared him straight in the eye, the same way I did the last time I had to do special favors for him. My thoughts were a house on fire. I was a knife in a gunfight.

    "I died," I said. "I died every day."

    I felt like I was choking; I felt like my body physically could not breathe the air near this man.

    If he was a man at all.

    "The money you were getting was enough. Enough, already. And you used it," I said, still unable to comprehend it, even at eighteen. "You used it to make more victims, and even more victims."

    "Bigger business," he said. "You should understand it now. You''re older. More gold."

    "I don''t understand it."

    "Well," he said, with a voice that belonged to a demon, a demon that belonged, for all eternity, in hell. "Go cry about it, then."

    "Don''t worry, I will," I said. "I do it every day. I do it in my sleep."

    I closed my eyes.

    "But before I do that again..." I said. I was stronger and older, and trained; I imagined myself on top of him, slamming my elbow into his throat, and into his temple, my fingers in both his eye sockets, and taking the knife from my pocket- to go directly for both his carotid arteries: the ones that brought oxygenated blood from his nonexistent heart to his immoral, corrupt, completely twisted, completely defunct, and completely depraved brain.

    I took the knife from my pocket.

    And then I dropped the knife on the ground.

    And then I walked away.

    Because we aren''t like him. His victims aren''t like him.

    I flicked off the switch for the simulation.

    The underground floors of the Webwork were designed for US agent training. I was in B14.

    I sat alone, on the floor of the training room.

    Extra training on Saturdays was my new form of acceptable self-harm. It definitely worked; it certainly took my mind away from memories of Experiment Nightingale.

    The darkness turned back into flames, and turned from flames back into the grand and beautiful lobby of the hotel, and from the lobby back into the dim, vast, empty training room.

    The real lights flickered back on.

    I was afraid of this man, his size and power.

    But weak people pull other people down to make themselves feel stronger.

    So I was never afraid of the tears.

    I was never afraid to show that I do have weaknesses- because with weakness comes strength.

    And it makes us human.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--IX--ovw--

    I guess maybe I didn''t know how to stay near someone I loved.

    And no matter how much you may love someone, or how much someone may love you... you can''t be with them all the time.

    I slowed my run when I arrived at the Lowdown.

    It was just as bad as I remembered it- drugs everywhere and prostitution and pollution. A fourteen-year-old was murdered. Just four years ago, that fourteen-year-old very well could have been me.

    I checked the sticky note Belinda gave me.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    Dirtwater Avenue.

    The part Dirtwater made sense, but it wasn''t even an avenue. I hugged a sidewalk, looked down with my hands folded, and among other things, prayed that Caleb would forgive me. I don''t stay put when I can help. I don''t stay put when there is a murderer and rapist on the loose. I don''t care for a name but I do care for a difference. I had been broken and damaged and hurt and completely destroyed; I had both the power, as well as the opportunity, to keep it from happening to others. So I left Caleb a note, texted Scott, and walked.

    "Working on a Sunday?" Connor said.

    His voice was groggy and maybe a little bit slurred. Possibly exhaustion, possibly alcohol.

    Reception in the Lowdown was awful; I had to listen like a bat, and really press the phone to my ear. I hopped over a broken manhole and then a pile of vomit and then another pile of vomit and then a pile of both vomit and dismembered rats.

    "It''s a Saturday," I said.

    "Right."

    "Sorry, Connor," I said. "Just forward to me whatever Belinda had on our guy."

    She had to have something; she wouldn''t have acted the way she did otherwise. I just needed to get it.

    "I thought you chose not to read minds," said Connor. "You''re that telepath. Read minds only if it''s survival or death. How do you know she''s got anything?"

    "I read her minus the mind reading," I replied.

    I heard him yawn, and the squeaking of a bed.

    "People are dead, Connor," I said.

    Behind me, some skinny brown-skinned men sniffing chemicals started yelling, loudly and unintelligibly. I didn''t glance back more than once because that only would have made things worse.

    "Maybe to some it''s just a statistic," I said. What I loved about Connor Meadows was that he was steady. What I didn''t necessarily always love was that apparently, his years looking at dead bodies had robbed him of human emotions. "It''s a little different to me." I casually sped up my walking pace. "If you don''t do it, I can do mind reading on her anyway."

    Not that I can point my finger there- didn''t I lose many of my own emotions for a while? I just trained and taught myself to get them back early; it''s not about what other people do. Who you are doesn''t depend on another person''s behavior.

    "And if you do force me to read her mind, then I can learn whatever the two of you may or may not have had together," I said. "And I can tell your wife."

    The skinny brown-skinned men who were sniffing chemicals and yelling got bored of following me and found interest in a pile of garbage.

    "You''re a piece of shit," said Connor.

    "I love you, Connor," I said. "Bye."

    --ovw--X--ovw--

    The Lowdown had a disgusting stench.

    It was abhorrent and nauseating- combined smells of dead animals and smoke and substances and garbage swimming in unmoving water that hadn''t been touched for years and years and years.

    It took about ten minutes for Connor to send the folders to my cell phone. It took about nine for me to identify the man I was now looking for- Reynaldo Mendoza Torres. Apparently, the Manila Maniac''s drug dealer. Belinda was right; so far, there wasn''t a name on the actual murderer.

    I thought maybe I could help change that. I was scrolling through Torres''s contacts and old addresses when a voice came through, in my mind, telepathically. Caleb''s.

    "Howdy," he said.

    "Hi," I said. "You could have just called me, you know."

    "I didn''t want to totally disrupt you from the very important info you''re looking at," said Caleb.

    Telepathy felt nice. Maybe it''s because I didn''t have one constant human in my life until Malcolm, but it made me feel special- almost like it reminded me that someone, any person at all, would take time to communicate with me, form a bond, form a connection.

    Communicating directly through telepathy wasn''t bound by any "social norms." It wasn''t bound by anything at all- it was you, and the other person. Nothing else came into play.

    Caleb continued.

    "And besides," he said. "You have a mind as beautiful as you are. It''s where I want to be."

    My mind was literally full of PTSD and poems that probably no one on earth wanted to hear.

    "That''s... funny," I said.

    "I meant it," said Caleb.

    I smiled. "Thank you," I said. I paused. "And I mean for last night."

    I felt the delight, the satisfaction in his telepathic voice. "You had a good time?" he said.

    "Shut up," I said. "Well. Yes. Whatever."

    I was ready to jump off a cliff.

    He laughed, and it was the nicest sound my mind could ever feel, from anywhere. And I knew I had to end the conversation.

    "I meant thanks for keeping me safe," I said. "Now there''s a murderer I need to help identify, okay?"

    I watched a man on a dilapidated motorcycle drive off into a street to my right.

    "Naw, thank you," said Caleb. His telepathic voice laughed again. "You mean the world to me, Chris."

    There was this peculiar, mild burning sensation in my left hand- possibly one of the many end results of the injuries and the physical tortures we were put through in Nightingale. I wondered where Kaylee was, how she was feeling.

    Nightingale...

    Maybe there was some kind of chemical antidote somewhere out there, or a leaf or a fruit or a tree, for all of the sociopath-made substances and poison they pumped into our bodies, into our blood without our permission; without anyone''s permission at all, really, as far as Kaylee and I knew. I wasn''t sure what was worse- what they forced into our systems, or how they chose to force them into us.

    "You''re everything to me," said Caleb.

    I followed the motorcycle from a reasonable distance.

    I said nothing.

    "I care about you," said Caleb.

    I tried not to feel anything too emotional; I tried not to feel emotions at all, but he was making me melt. Now was not the time for marshmallow melting.

    My eyes were still on the motorcycle. It was cadmium green, and it pulled over beside a really filthy, really seedy bar. I wanted to laugh and also cry because I used to work there.

    "Are you and Kaylee going to visit the Port today?" I said.

    The man on the motorcycle wore a tinted cerulean helmet, and he didn''t remove it when he entered the establishment.

    "Caleb?" I said.

    "I just told you I cared about you," said Caleb.

    There it was again- that feeling, that guilt. That same exact guilt I had felt the night before.

    A marshmallow covered in strawberry jam, cream, shields, defenses, walls, and barriers. A recipe of me.

    Best served with hot cocoa.

    I didn''t love it. But I was working on it, the best I could.

    And frankly, the feeling itself had no point. Caleb and I... we got as close as two humans could possibly get.

    Was it even guilt, or was it longing?

    "I care about you, too, Caleb," I said. "You know that. I just... look, I have stuff to do. I''m sorry."

    I turned my attention back to the folders on the cell phone.

    "It''s just nice to hear it," said Caleb.

    I found facial composites and photographs in one of the files and immediately started a search for names and IDs. I hated breaking connections with Caleb. I would have spent my life with him. But I needed to go.

    "Can you tell Kaylee I said thank you for the ice cream?" I said. "I mean, you know. From yesterday night."

    "You mean the ice cream you never ate?"

    "Yes."

    "You thanked her."

    "I did?"

    "Yes," said Caleb. "You did."

    "Oh." I was getting irritated; the stupid search was taking longer than usual. "Just tell her again, anyway. And tell Malcolm I love him, when you drop by."

    "Will do," said Caleb. "I love you, Danny."

    "I love you," I replied.

    Within minutes I had identified a place to visit for some information. I wasn''t going to find the relevant people in the hotel. Belinda''s address would have to wait.

    --ovw--XI--ovw--

    I positioned my feet carefully.

    If I fell here, then it was going to be three and a half stories to the ground. And that wouldn''t really be too much of an issue in one sense.

    But it would give away my location.

    I repositioned my left hand. With my right I steadied the earpiece.

    "...not going to deliver until the 23rd, four PM."

    "Yes, sir."

    The people speaking were far down; the earpiece allowed me to get closer without being there. I was balanced on the trusses of a large and unfinished gable roof.

    This is where Torres and other dealers carried out their own operations. I always made sure to have as little to do with drug dealers as possible; this was an obvious exception.

    "Joaquin!" said one voice.

    "Yes, sir," said another voice.

    "Colombia?" said the first voice. There was a shuffling sound, and then the sound of bags hitting a surface. Maybe the floor, or a table, or a wall. "Black Stuff? Or Chalk?"

    "Angel Dust, sir."

    "How many?"

    Inwardly I groaned. Maybe I was wasting my time here.

    I climbed higher, to the top of the triangular structure, simultaneously using my phone''s holograph to memorize faces of more people- contacts that Connor or Belinda or I could investigate later; perhaps even see in person.

    Then something caught my attention.

    Somewhere below me, between crates and bricks and stacks of wood: a man not much taller than I, with dyed neon blue hair, braided on one side and with shiny, metallic green highlights.

    He was scribbling on what looked like a clipboard, or maybe a large pad of paper; I couldn''t really tell. I just knew I needed to get a closer look.

    I gave myself ten seconds, to assess whether or not there were too many people, to weigh the dangers, if any; if moving now was worth the risk.

    I dropped down, to a tall stack of crates about a story below me.

    "Midnight!" It was Kaylee''s telepathic voice. "Hey!"

    From the top of the stack of crates, I leaped towards an empty window frame.

    I was still flying through the air when I responded.

    "I''m just a bit busy right now, Kaylee," I said. "I''m sorry. Can we talk later?"

    I caught the windowsill with my fingertips, without making a sound.

    "Two minutes and I''ll be done," said Kaylee.

    "One minute," I said.

    I hopped off of the wall and onto another stack of crates, this one bringing me much closer to the ground.

    "Okay," said Kaylee. "Fine! I just wanted to say that Caleb came home today, really happy. He was like a Christmas tree."

    I had no idea what a Christmas tree had to do with Caleb being happy, but I said, "Okay."

    "So, whatever you did, and I mean, whatever you did- thank you."

    I did this little squeaky high-pitched telepathic laugh. It was pitiful. "You''re welcome, Kaylee. Talk to you later."

    I hopped off of the top crate and reached ground level, in perfect silence. I smiled. I was meant to do everything soundlessly. It always felt nice doing the job the way it was meant to be done.

    I moved closer to the man in question.

    It was simple; Meadows or occasionally Wyatt Shafer, a man who took people in for questioning, did the more "brutal" work (brutal in my opinion at least). Belinda was the smart one. I was the hamster that stole cheese and fruits and grains and vegetables from places, if these things might have a strand of hair on them, or maybe some fingerprints. I was useless in a fight, but simultaneously I wasn''t useless in a fight- that''s what James said. Apparently I proved it before getting the job.

    I hated fighting. I hated it, absolutely hated it. I couldn''t say this enough, emphasize this enough. And only in part because it was my job to avoid anything that might jeopardize the investigation; it was my job to not give anything away.

    I''d defended myself plenty of times. But while working, I mostly couldn''t afford any fights- and I still wouldn''t enjoy them if I could.

    It was easy for me to follow the man undetected. It took me some light and a small mirror to get what I needed first: a glimpse of the tattoo on his face.

    Butterfly, between the left eye and left ear.

    Reynaldo Mendoza Torres.

    I waited while Torres approached an old wooden desk, put down the pen and pad of paper, and sat down. He took a phone call that lasted five seconds and offered nothing useful. Then he left.

    I scanned the area. I didn''t know for sure if it was meant to be some kind of large warehouse or factory or department store; it was empty except for construction materials. And drugs. And the people selling the drugs. But they all were too far away, and not even looking. No cameras.

    It took me only about 90 seconds to put on my gloves, snag the pen Torres used to write, swab the desk and the chair behind it, take one blank sheet of paper from the pad- the one at the bottom- place everything in evidence bags, and vanish from the scene.

    --ovw--XII--ovw--

    I think I looked like a kid in a candy store, walking away from the Lowdown. Partly because on the way home I bought myself a strawberry-and-chocolate-flavored popsicle for extra happiness. I called Caleb.

    OOOOO THIS POPSICLE YUMMY.

    Yay

    "Cawef!" I said. "Auw ewf eeh aef Bwimah oh uma oh."

    "Chris?" said Caleb.

    He sounded alarmed. I wasn''t sure why.

    "Where are you?" said Caleb. "Are you okay, are you safe?"

    Uhm

    I was so confused.

    "Is someone else there?" he said. "Is the person who put a gag on you there with you?"

    I paused. I tried to think about it, for just the fraction of a second.

    When was the LAST time there was a gag on my mou-

    Actually, never mind.

    "TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE," he said. "NOW."

    Wait, so he-

    So he didn''t already KNOW I was strolling out of the Lowdown with a source of calories and with new information and skipping every other step while also casually hopping over mutated rat-cockroach-worm-hybrid feces every two seconds on jagged asphalt?

    AWWWWWWWWW

    Cute of him not to read my mind <3 <3

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSS

    Well, either that, or I was still thinking of ratatouille recipes.

    I mean, I literally don''t even know how to cook at all, so that made a lot of sense. The only cooking tool I had any experience with from the Lowdown was a hot frying pan. When I was ten, I think.

    It was repeatedly smashed against my face.

    I removed the popsicle from my mouth. "It''s a popsicle," I said.

    I listened to him put down the phone and walk away, breathe heavily for a while, and then come back on the line.

    "Chris," he said. "Chris. Please, DON''T SCARE ME like that."

    Bruh ur dad scary. Shut up pls

    Also if a phone call from me on a Saturday so scary GO PLAY A HORROR GAME.

    Damn.

    "Can you please save Belinda''s number onto my phone?" I said.

    "Of course," said Caleb.

    "Okay, call you later, I love you!" I said.

    One of the clouds in the sky, a purple one, was shaped like a rainbow. I laughed. A cloud shaped like a rainbow. The one beside it, an orange one, was shaped like a cat eating a bowl of lasagna. I put the popsicle back in my mouth.

    OOOOOOOOO it makes me happy

    Yay

    Ice cream

    Yay

    OK well technically, it''s probably not even ice cream, like probably it''s technically-

    "CHRIS," said Caleb.

    I paused in my walk for just a moment. I surveyed all of the very unmaintained, falling-apart buildings around me. The Lowdown still always smelled like literal feces, just like it always did. Every single other person around still stared at me for as long as they possibly could, just like they always did.

    What more did he want from me? I was going to see him at midnight at the Port, anyway. We always went there. People knew we walked there in the mornings; that I worked out there.

    But midnights were our secret.

    "AIh hHaid," I said into the receiver, "AIh luhHf U."

    Like

    You know

    Like I-love-you-you-can-go-now I love you <3 <3

    "Chris." he said. "This is why people read your mind."

    WHAT IS YOU INSINUATING BRO

    I hung up.

    --ovw--

    I called Belinda Klein next- immediately, upon disconnecting from Caleb. She picked up after eleven rings.

    "Who is this?" said Belinda.

    "Widnigh," I said.

    "YOU ARE CALLING ME ON A SATURDAY EVENING," said Belinda.

    "Emwf," I said. "Aa ohh."

    "WHAT IS IN YOUR MOUTH?" said Belinda.

    I removed the popsicle from my mouth. "Nothing," I said.

    "Make this good," said Belinda. "Or you will spend the rest of YOUR life doing MY paperwork."

    Bitch u can''t do that to me

    "YES, I FUCKING CAN. YOU JUST FUCKING WATCH ME," she said. "Now why the fuck are you fucking calling me on a fucking Saturday fucking evening?!"

    It was her evening for F-word?

    Oh, my God.

    Oh my God I did not want to know that

    "SPEAK NOW OR DIE ON MONDAY!" she said.

    "I can confirm that the Manila Maniac''s alleged drug dealer is still around, and is operating in the Lowdown," I said. I think Belinda could probably hear the smile in my voice. "I can confirm the location, and I possibly, maybe, might have some DNA and/or some fingerprints for everyone! Caleb and I also think that the murderer may have attempted to send me a text message from a masked number."

    Belinda was silent.

    "Isn''t that great, Belinda?" I said. "Oh, and they sell Angel Dust there. What does that do? Is it some kind of new compound created from US experiments or something?"

    Silence.

    There was a raccoon on the sidewalk. It was brown and white and gray. I walked toward it.

    "Belle?" I said.

    More silence.

    The raccoon was adorable. I once heard that raccoons used to never live here. I wished I saw more of them.

    Hewwo cuuute lidduw animawwwww :3

    "Hi?" I said. "Belinda?"

    Belinda was still silent.

    I knelt down and gave the raccoon the rest of my popsicle. Hopefully it liked chocolate, because the popsicle was mostly just the chocolate half now. I opened the pack of eggplant-flavored jellybeans I bought while I was waiting for Klein to finally pick up. I was actually surprised she didn''t just use a voice inbox. Or maybe she had multiple phone numbers, and I just called the best one.

    More silence, again. I chewed and swallowed the cheap, dry, unsatisfying jellybeans. I looked at the packaging. JOHNSON FAMILY''S UNADDICTIVE, DRUG-FREE EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS! it read. HARVESTED FROM THE BACK OF THE JOHNSON FAMILY''S FARMING TRUCK, MADE WITH 100% REAL EGGPLANTS. BEST FAMILY EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS FOR YOUR NON DRUG ADDICTED OFFSPRING AND CHILDREN!

    Offspring and children? Aww.

    That''s so inclusive of them! I thought.

    Belinda still wasn''t responding. Although for a moment, I thought I did hear her breathing, very slowly. She was breathing VERY slowly. And loudly. I wasn''t even sure what I was really hearing then.

    Maybe it really IS her evening for F-word-

    Ohhhhhh

    Oh God please no

    Oh I''m gonna slightly politely puke

    You know. Like, eggplant-flavored jellybean projectile puke. Politely.

    Oh please no. Oh damn that is nasty.

    Calm down Klein is not nasty

    Okay maybe not THAT nasty

    She kind of was, though...

    No she kinda is tho

    No pls

    ORBIPLOSIONS PLS

    I don''t even know what those are but pls

    Spoiler alert: Waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh

    I decided to read the back of the tacky, light green, plastic food packaging as well, while I waited. JOHNSON FAMILY''S UNADDICTIVE, DRUG-FREE EGGPLANT JELLYBEANS. PRODUCT NOT LICENSED BY THE U.S. FDAAA. ALSO NOT LICENSED BY THE U.S. AAA OR AA. DOES NOT TREAT ALCOHOL ADDICTION. DOES NOT TREAT VYSTIR-RELATED CONDITIONS OR OTHER CHEMICALLY-MUTATED AILMENTS. WARNING: DO NOT FEED TO BIRDS. BIRDS MAY ATTACK YOU. INGREDIENTS: SODIUM. MADE IN THE OVERWOODS. ALLERGEN INFORMATION: PROCESSED IN A FACILITY THAT ALSO HANDLES GOOSE EGGS, SYNTHETIC CHEESE, "BUTTER," ARTIFICIAL COFFEE, METFORMIN, HIGHLY CONCENTRATED CANE SUGAR, INSULIN, COCA LEAVES, AND SOME FORMS OF METHAMPHETAMINE. LOST CONTROL OF YOUR COCAINE USE? CONTACT THE JOHNSON FAMILY.

    I chewed and swallowed. The jellybeans were somehow more delicious the more of them you ate.

    "You don''t like Angel Dust?" I said to Belinda- assuming she was still there.

    "Midnight," Belinda said. I was almost relieved! And happy at the same time. It was the first thing she said for a really hot minute.

    Oh.

    :D

    OK she''s still there!!!

    : DDDD :DDD : DDDDD

    I was so happy, my mind was practically speaking in emojis, but minus the actual emojis, so I had to settle for random smiley faces with many chins. Like

    : DDDD

    She didn''t have to say anything, I guess. I was just happy she heard everything! And extremely happy that I found at least something to help us possibly go forward.

    "Yes?" I said.

    The cute little raccoon took the popsicle and scuttled away. I wished I had some bread to give it. Raccoons love bread.

    "Suck a dick," Belinda said.

    <ol>

    <li> MY.</li>

    </ol>

    GOSH

    She''s so happy with my investigation that she wants me to go suck a dick!

    It was also very sweet of her to validate that I was gay!

    "Oh," I said, unable to contain my happiness. It was so nice of her. I chewed and swallowed a few more eggplant jellybeans. "Thank you, Belinda," I said, smiling. "Yes, I think I will."

    She hung up.

    I ate the last few jellybeans, expertly tossed the empty jellybean packaging into the pocket of Caleb''s jacket (there were no trash cans in the Lowdown), pounced off of a few buildings, and flew spinning towards the Suburb-Everglade part of V5 for my evening tumbling routine.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XIII--ovw--

    The second-hand smoke from Belinda''s lungs was a dark slate gray. It felt like poison, and I had to sit next to her.

    "We''ll know in two weeks," said Elsie as she readjusted her aquamarine aluminum eyeglasses. "If we find anything in the hotel that matches." She glanced at me. "You don''t need to do any further inspecting."

    The night sky was just as starry and cloudless as it was yesterday evening. Streetlights illuminated the road on my right side, and the glow was like candlelight on the dark maroon tablecloth.

    I stabbed a potato with my fork. "In two weeks?" I said. "There has to be more that we can do."

    Elyza "Elsie" Cobb, with an IQ of 175, was a specialist in one of the many forensics teams I worked with. She wasn''t as difficult as, say, Belinda- but she delivered bad news, and delivered good news like it was bad news.

    "Within two weeks, I posit," she said.

    Posit.

    The team was gathered at Crisanto Pacifico- a diner located just outside of the Suburbs, where food prices weren''t insanely unreasonable. This was where I met with people if it was necessary, and wasn''t a weekday.

    But this time, I wasn''t the one who called the meeting; it was James, who sat across from me at the table. We were outside in the balmy and humid air, about a hundred meters higher in elevation than Vicinity One and Vicinity Two, which bordered a side of the Everglades- the area where Crisanto Pacifico was. I stared at the fountain of dancing water and fish to my left. It changed color, from yellow to blue to red to green.

    "I know what he''s thinking," said James, who was still in the process of munching away at a large toasted chicken sandwich. "He doesn''t want to wait; somebody else could get killed."

    "Or raped," I said.

    "Or raped." James swallowed, then took a pill and then a sip of his coffee.

    "Or both!" interjected Kaylee. We all turned to look at her. She was here because she read my mind and followed me here. Belinda told her to, quote, "make a beanstalk and jump on it" but she hadn''t done that yet; she was staying to listen. James decided that she could stay. "How tricky can this guy be?" she said.

    "We technically don''t know if it''s a guy or gal, Kaylee," I said.

    "We also don''t know if it''s the same person," Wyatt said. "As whoever committed the other murders, decapapitations, rapes. Could have been a group." I barely glanced in his direction, at first. Wyatt wore an army green T-shirt with the US seal on it: a dark blue circle, with a set of balanced scales in its center, at the bottom. Above the scales were two overlapping triangles- one inverted- with some sort of shape in the middle of the upright one. Wyatt''s hair was short, brown, and salt and pepper. Kind of like the raccoon I saw earlier today. "But I''ll take Torres in for questioning." He looked at me, and smiled. "Good having you on the Union of Stars, Midnight."

    I stared at him.

    "Thank you, sir," I replied.

    "The word is decapitation, Wyatt," said Belinda.

    I changed the playlist on my phone.

    "That''s exactly what I said," replied Wyatt.

    Elsie was scrolling through something on her phone. "Why do the folders have notes on unrelated killings, from years ago?" she said. She looked up from the screen, and at Klein. "With old news articles. Some alleged ''Manila Maniac''? Sounds like a myth."

    Belinda grunted irritably. "Same area. Same signature of the killer- heads all cut off. None of the heads were found. All instances showed evidence of physical as well as sexual abuse. I deduced it was possibly the same person."

    "Or entity," said Wyatt.

    "Here''s what''s going to happen," said James, clearly sounding bored, and like he didn''t want to be here despite him calling the meeting. "Connor will conduct further investigation, in the warehouse."

    "The drug place in the Lowdown?" I said.

    "Yes," said James.

    "Connor isn''t even here."

    "Yes, I am!" Connor materialized out of thin air, in the seat between Kaylee and Wyatt.

    "How long have you been there?" I said.

    "Thought you could smell me," he replied.

    "When you''re drunk or you''re smoking or both, yeah," I said. "Nice having you."

    "Chris will take the hotel while Wyatt performs his interrogations," James said.

    "What about you?" said Belinda.

    "I''ll keep the mainland and its president happy," said James. "And prevent this place, us included, from getting blown to dust."

    Kaylee and I exchanged a glance. Not one, but both of her parents were CSOs for the Union of Stars'' Overwoods branch. And she wasn''t safe.

    Nobody said anything.

    I put on Caleb''s jacket. "I guess I better go see to that hotel, then," I said. "I love you guys."

    "Monday," James said.

    "What?" I said.

    "Monday. You take the hotel on Monday."

    I shook my head. "A fourteen-year-old was killed. Who knows if I can find this killer today and stop them? Other people could get hurt."

    James had no reservations about reading my mind. Neither did Kaylee, who was already walking away from the outdoor dining space. She was probably going to go make that beanstalk for Belinda.

    I guess you could say they always knew how to hit me and where.

    "Other people are getting hurt, Chris." James took his eyeglasses off, slowly and without touching them. "Because you aren''t spending time with them. People who want you around. People who want you to be near them."

    I didn''t know if he meant Malcolm; I didn''t know if he meant Caleb. I didn''t know if he maybe even meant anyone else. I didn''t read his mind to find out.

    "Nobody wants me around," I said.

    "That''s not true," said Connor.

    I hopped off the ground, aiming for Vicinity Two.

    --ovw--XIV--ovw--

    The dirt and dust on the rooftop didn''t move when my feet connected with it.

    I looked around me. I saw all of Vicinity Two from here; nothing obscured the dispiriting view, and nothing obscured the starlight.

    Except maybe the darkness of my own memories.

    My shoes and legs didn''t need to absorb any impact, as always. I landed on what they used to call the Century Spire Tower: 60 floors of devoid, vacant, and bare; 60 floors of cold, dark, abandoned, and empty. Just like me, I guessed.

    With my hands in Caleb''s jacket pockets, I very slowly moved to the edge of the rooftop. I looked down... down, down. I looked at the outlines of sidewalks and avenues, trees and ivy and weeds, the growing things that took over half of the crumbled asphalt.

    I looked at my left hand, where there were still marks from where the experiment conductors reconstructed bone and blood vessels.

    "Do you hear me?" I said, seemingly to the sky, without any thinking.

    I somnolently made my way to the part of the rooftop where I stood at eleven years old; I stood where, if you fell, you''d hit the pavement, the concrete of an empty parking lot. And probably splatter, like a bug hitting a windshield.

    Squish.

    I kicked a pebble off the top, and I could only follow it with my eyes for a second before it was no longer visible to the eye.

    It was the final day, the third month of Experiment Nightingale, the experiment that took the lives of kids that had gifts they could have used to better this world. People that could have bettered this place we live in, a place that often feels so full of darkness, a place so sick with pain.

    I remember deciding it was too full of darkness and too sick with pain. I could take pain from people; no one could take this pain from me.

    I was eleven and I didn''t fall; I jumped. Only somehow I went way too far past the entire parking space, past roads and trees and broken bicycle wheels and fire hydrants. And when I landed I remained alive; there were no new injuries, not even a scratch. That was the day I lost my mind- or should I say, I lost whatever it was I still had left after years of abuse and after Experiment Nightingale.

    I had nightmares before Nightingale; I had more after Nightingale.

    I didn''t hit the earth; the earth came to me, it took me gently in its arms like it cared to not hurt me.

    Too late.

    On that day I curled up, alone, on a sidewalk, and cried until I thought I would die and it was over. I woke up in Malcolm''s house.

    I told myself experiments were nothing new, thousands and thousands and thousands of people have been killed by these very experiments; it was nothing new, I had to move on.

    It didn''t help.

    What I''ve learned is we don''t choose what happens to us or what doesn''t; we choose who we are, when they do happen to us. We can choose to be kind when the worst has happened, we can choose to heal others rather than to hurt. What goes around comes around. It''s all that matters.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XV--ovw--

    I stared at the ground far below me for a moment longer, then turned to enter the building''s top floor.

    I was in the air, spinning with previously-mastered trajectory towards the rooftop door when my cell phone rang. I tucked my body, rotated forward, and met the ground with my feet to answer.

    "Hey!" I said in my most cheery tone. "You''ve reached Midnight on this absolutely beautiful Saturday night. Can I help you?"

    "Chris." James''s voice.

    "Yes, hi."

    "Belinda wants to take you off the assignment."

    "What?"

    "She just thinks you''re unsafe."

    "I can literally jump from a sewer and onto a plane. I think I''m good."

    "Sit this one out, Chris. You can help others."

    "I''m helping others by letting someone evil run loose? I''m sick of these people, James. It''s disgusting. Something or someone is going to stop them; it may as well be me."

    James said nothing for a moment.

    "I''m staying on this case," I said.

    "Tell you what," he replied. "Tomorrow morning, after you do your church thing, or whatever it is that you Catholics like to do-"

    "Don''t categorize me."

    "Oh, sorry. Should I have said Protestant?"

    "What are we doing tomorrow?"

    He laughed because it was SO funny. "Srazhenye." He sounded affable. Amused, entertained. "Let''s see who goes down. If you win, you get to stay- work the murder case."

    "The same murder case."

    "Yes. If you win, you get to investigate further. If you lose, you''re off the case."

    Srazhenye- or SRA as we called it in the agency- was a physical fight between two or more parties in a simulated environment, typically done in one of the training rooms or gyms. Very common training, and mandatory. Twice a week if you had to do work that may involve combat. I''d been in plenty of them; I lost, mostly.

    "Who am I up against?"

    "You and Webb," said James, "versus Klein and Shafer."

    Web?

    "WHO ON EARTH IS WEB?"

    "Webb," James repeated. "You know, Webb. Elijah Webb? Webb with the double ''B.'' Like, the Ice Queen Princess?"

    Ice. Queen. PRINCESS.

    ICE QUEEN PRINCESS?!?!?!

    "Chris?" said James. "Are you still there?"

    ELIJAH?!?!?!

    "You mean ELYZA. COBB!" I replied. "COBB! THE GIRL WHO ALMOST CHOPPED YOUR HEAD OFF!"

    That was the year prior.

    "Oh," said James. "Yes, her."

    I paused. I don''t think he even really remembered; he was SO HIGH when that happened.

    I also don''t think I ever saw anyone so badly injured laugh so hard when I took the pain away.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I guessed, perhaps, that the blackening of the skin under my eyes was really funny to him. Or the literal grayness of my irises when they lost color.

    "You''re aware that I hate fighting," I said.

    "That''s why I''m making you do it," James said. He made a swallowing noise; probably a pill or something. "And before you speak, I read your mind and yes- this is your only way of staying on this case."

    I took a deep breath. I cleared my throat, closing my eyes for just a moment. I opened them, and there were no monsters before me.

    "Great," I said.

    "11 AM tomorrow. Coliseum. Don''t be late."

    --ovw--

    I stared at my phone with the happiest expression on my face long after James disconnected.

    Just kidding.

    A yell tore out of my body of its own volition when I threw the phone at the wall beside me and sat down. I wondered what Marie would have told me. She fought one of the mutated-experiment-creations of the US, during Nightingale, thinking that she had to.

    It was a test and she was wrong. You weren''t supposed to fight them. And maybe, I would have made the same mistake myself. If they didn''t end her life in front of me for one wrong move.

    She was one of the last to die in the three-month experiment. She only made one wrong move.

    Inertia demands that I keep going, for her.

    I got up, brushed the gray-and-white specks of dust off my black jeans and picked up the cell phone. Not even a crack, but I guessed that was how technology was when it was made by the Union of Stars. I walked down the sixty flights of creaky wooden stairs while watching footage of previous SRAs, uploaded to the agency''s server for all agents to see. Whatever I was going to do in the Coliseum, it was going to be for the fourteen-year-old victim, the one whose name I didn''t know; the one I never met.

    --ovw--

    Malcolm greeted me at the border between Vicinity Five and the Port. It was Sunday, 1 AM, and he brought Skittles and Crayon- our Siberian husky and Alaskan Malamute. I gave Malc a hug and gave the dogs even bigger hugs and let Crayon lick my face. I was a dog person.

    "Shouldn''t you be sleeping?" I said.

    Malcolm raised his eyebrows at me. "Shouldn''t you be home?" he replied.

    "Emergency meeting," I said. "James called. Like always."

    The Port streets were empty and silent, save for the subtle sound of waves on nearby shores. Amber-colored lights and fireflies flickered above us as I smelled the salt from the ocean.

    "Kaylee and her brother dropped by earlier with Bollito Misto," said Malcolm. "And pot roast. Said you told ''em to say ''I love you'' for ya."

    "I can confirm," I said.

    He smiled. "I love you, too, little buddy."

    "You sure I shouldn''t get you a bigger house if I can?"

    "Hey." He put his hands up in front of him. "It''s your money."

    "How long did you wait for me? I mean, you didn''t know how long until I was coming home. Or if I was even coming home today at all."

    "Doesn''t matter."

    We walked in silence for a few moments, Skittles panting and wagging her fluffy curled tail. Then Crayon stood motionless. He turned to face one of the alleyways beside the street; he started growling.

    "What''s wrong, Crayon?" I said. Crayon was the very perceptive one, and the very protective one. His white fur looked like it was bristling. "Is someone there?"

    Crayon kept growling.

    My tone shifted from its usual silvery and mellow to something else.

    "Stay here," I said to Malcolm.

    "Chris, what''s going on?"

    I spoke in a hushed tone, but a furious one. "Just stay here. Where the light is." I surveyed the area around us. Nothing conspicuous. "Stay here, don''t make any sound."

    Silence. Nothing except the waves.

    "Malcolm," I said. "Take the dogs, right now, and go home."

    "I''m not leaving you here."

    "You have to." I looked at him. "Do it, now."

    I heard what sounded like a footstep. I knew whoever it was tried to conceal its sound; I knew what feet on the ground sounded like, or on staircases or on a trampoline or on a ledge- walking or jumping or running. Or trying to remain undetected. Or failing to do so. Slowly, I walked toward my approximation of where the sound came from, and reached into my pocket; I needed the earpiece.

    The alley was dark when I wrapped my hand around the earpiece. But the moment I pressed it into my ear, I didn''t need it anymore.

    --ovw--

    There was a yell behind me. It was harrowed, agonized- an older adult male''s yell; a sound generated by a voice that was strong, and gravelly.

    Malcolm.

    I whipped around with two throwing knives already in my left hand. The attacker wore all-black; not one inch of bare skin was exposed, completely eliminating my initial objective of finding a concrete and clear physical trait, to identify them later if not now.

    The attacker was maybe 5''8, 5''9. Possibly male, possibly female- I had no way to really know. Average build.

    Malcolm was on the ground and injured; there was a small pool of what looked like blood where he was on the street, his face contorted. The dogs- I wasn''t ready for the dogs. Skittles and Crayon weren''t moving.

    Darts.

    There were darts on them- I immediately prayed they were sedatives only, and not poison. I''d been shot with poison darts before and lived. Maybe they would be okay.

    The attacker had a gun pointed at me; I recognized it at once- a projectile electric stunner. Two things perplexed me at that moment.

    One: They weren''t trying to kill me.

    Two: How did they get one?

    These fancy non-lethal guns were, as far as I knew, only accessible in mainland US, nowhere else. I''d seen them only because of previous assignments that required me to take trips to the Union of Stars'' main headquarters or other mainland US locations; I had never seen one in the Overwoods.

    That only scared me more- if they were a US agent or some kind of operative, for whoever, were they attempting to kidnap people for experiments? Specific people? Telepaths? Previously experimented-on telepaths? None of these things were unheard of.

    That chain of thought was all I needed. If I wasn''t going to kill this person, I was going to make sure someone else would.

    They were standing over what to me looked like Skittles'' dead body. I lunged at them, and I mean I lunged at them. It took a split second for me to position my feet, figure out the line and distance, push off for maximum flight.

    I collided hard and fast into our masked attacker''s body, and then we were flying, through and beyond walls, and posts and columns and shelves and alleys and billboard commercials and broken glass windows- until I slammed them onto a blue building, one beside one of the most abandoned-looking convenience stores; a building made of layers and layers of steel and tempered glass.

    I flipped backwards twice, taking my earpiece off and also taking the can of flash spray from my jeans pocket in the process; I didn''t want to hurt the attacker beyond whatever was necessary. I also had an SRA to be a part of.

    "Do I say, ''it''s nice to see you again?''" I said in what James called my "signature" calm-when-attacking voice. "Or do you say it to me? You wrote me a love letter, right?"

    And this time, I wanted a fight. I wasn''t going to let this monster leave the scene easily. I wasn''t going to let them leave the scene, period.

    I took two steps and a half, pushed off the ground, and spun fast in a diagonal with my left leg raised and poised near my face. The masked whoever-they-were attempted to minimize any impact from the attack by shielding with their arms. My leg came down from the spin on their torso, smashing the black generator they landed on. I was hoping they''d talk. Or groan. But all I heard was breathing, and an aulmost inaudible grunt of pain. Still no information.

    "This isn''t fun for either of us," I said. "Or am I wrong?"

    I had to do this with speed- to go back to Malcolm and the dogs- and decided to engage quickly and make our fight a short one.

    I soon learned something: this attacker wasn''t planning to stay or to fight.

    I was never a killer, yet I wanted this man or woman to pay. I felt ready for a war.

    But the man or woman who attacked us that day had other plans.

    The one time I wanted a fight, and the other party wasn''t interested.

    I took a red, rusty, and blotchy piece of bent metal from a pile of disorganized scrap next to us. The attacker was still on the ground, recovering the air knocked out of their lungs.

    "If I''m who you want to mess with," I said, "then leave the rest of the world out of it. You do what miserable, low-down, pathetic cowards do." There was a burning in the damaged ligaments in my left hand. There was an acrimony and venom in my voice that even I didn''t hear often. "You could have just gone for me!"

    They clicked on a shiny silver canister from a pocket.

    It took only a moment: I was in a cloud of what felt like poison, only a hundred times worse than Belinda''s second-hand smoke, and I didn''t have a mask on me. I was on my knees and choking and coughing and vomiting the french fries that I''d ordered earlier at Crisanto Pacifico.

    When the mist cleared I was still alive, but a note written on red paper left in front of me told me why, apparently. I was still coughing; both my eyes were producing tears like waterfalls and I had to wipe them a million times to finally make out the words:

    "IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME

    I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    -M M

    PS

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN"

    --ovw--

    I wasn''t sure how long it took for me to make my way back to Malcolm. I was afraid. Afraid to see how badly he was hurt; afraid to see if Skittles and Crayon... if they were still here, still with us.

    There was blood streaming through an open cut on the left side of my face; it only irritated me because it got in my eye. I hopped back toward the general direction of where Malcolm and I were walking, the note in a plastic evidence bag sealed twice with security tape, in Caleb''s jacket pocket- but I wasn''t going to give it to anyone. As for Caleb''s jacket, I was going to have to wash it at home, wear something else for the SRA.

    But I was dizzy, lightheaded, I didn''t quite get my trajectory right and ended up smashing through a glass door of some building somewhere and tumbled to the floor in a heap, a heap made of pain and fear and awful, horrible memories, a heap that was bleeding and still coughing. I was moving as fast as I humanly possibly could, when finding my bearings was almost impossible. I was in so much pain that I didn''t even notice it was raining until I was there, a bleeding heap on the floor, looking outside and up at the sky. I didn''t assess the damage; I ignored the pain and got up and ran. I kept going for about two blocks until the stitch in my side was almost unbearable. It wasn''t pain that I could ignore- but I kept moving.

    I turned a corner. Malcolm used his coat to wrap around the injury- I couldn''t see it; it was somewhere on his left arm, and his face was still twisted by pain, and there was blood on the coat. I immediately went to Skittles. I didn''t want to do what I was about to do. I put the skin of my palms and fingers Skittles'' fur, on her side. I lightly pressed both of my hands on the floofy floof, and waited for seconds, and then a minute, and then another minute. And I felt nothing.

    I can never describe that moment to you. Really I never can. I might try ten trillion times and still never get it right, not once.

    ORR

    BIPP

    PLOZIONSSSS

    Nothing.

    I feel something I do I do I do I do I do

    I feel something YES I DO

    No; no I didn��t. I was lying to myself. Because I felt nothing.

    That was when I began to cry, not from the toxic gas but because, yet again, I had lost another part of me; I had lost, yet again, some of the little that I still had left. I wasn''t someone who ever had very much. What little I had, I treasured.

    I quickly did the same with Crayon.

    "Come on," I said, my voice despairing and small and broken and more raspy than it ever had been before. I felt nothing. I wiped tears and dirt and blood off my cheeks, and tried again. "I know you''re in there," I said. "I know you are!" I waited another minute. I breathed whatever my lungs would allow me, choked and squeezed as they were by the poison. "You''re still in there."

    I started coughing hard. I felt something like thunder, but couldn''t hear it. I didn''t know what I was anymore. I didn''t know where I was anymore. I knew where I was, but I didn''t. I felt pain and yet nothing existed.

    "You''re still in there," I repeated. "You have to be. You''re still here." My vision was going purple and gray and black at the edges; I thought positive thoughts, such as "the glass is half full." I swallowed hard, my hands still on Crayon''s white fur, and cleared my throat. "COME ON!"

    "Chris," Malcolm said.

    I turned to look at him.

    He looked back at me, and written on his face were all the words I didn''t need to hear; I didn''t want to hear.

    I couldn''t.

    I covered my face with both my hands and sobbed, but I could only allow myself this indulgence for a minute. I took my phone and called an emergency service. I approached Malcolm.

    "Chris," he said sternly. "Don''t do this."

    "I am going to do it."

    "No," he said. "No, you''re not!"

    "Yes, I am." I coughed again, cleared my throat, and sniffed. I blinked a few times. I took his hand in both of mine, and like the usual it took only a few seconds. The pain was beyond description of words that I knew.

    Fractures. I knew it instantly. Open fractures.

    I knew the feeling exactly. It happened during the experiment, and it happened before the experiment, too.

    In a world full of poison, of immorality: if you are stranded in a place where the only things around are evil, what do you do?

    You run to the arms of the lesser evil.

    You try to survive. With whatever is actually available to you.

    I gritted my imperfect teeth as blood poured from the wound on my face. "Help''s coming, dad." I had to breathe as deeply as I could, as calmly, slowly, and deeply as I could; this is what you do when you are in extreme pain, from a severe injury.

    "Chris, let me go."

    He shifted his hand, the one I was holding, only slightly. But the pain that even that small movement caused was like a flash of pure white lightning, I cried out, and if possible started to sob louder than when I knew Crayon and Skittles were gone.

    "Son, let go!"

    "Just don''t move," I said. My eyes started to lose their color, and turned gray, the blood vessels below my eyes turning a very visible black, like black paint hurled at a wall and dripping downward. It happened whenever I took the suffering from someone and it was a lot of effort and a lot of pain. I looked up at the rain, at the sky, at the clouds that seemed to have come from nowhere. Good thing I sealed the note, said a voice in my mind.

    Did I even give a shit anymore?

    Maybe, I should have fought the monster; the hideous thing. Maybe Marie and I should have done it together.

    Maybe from the experiment, Kaylee should have been the only survivor.

    --ovw--XVI--ovw--

    I looked from the obsidian black sky above us- an unrelenting endless darkness, it seemed, not with any clouds that I could make out- and down to Malcolm''s face. I remember that was difficult to tell my tears from the rain, or his tears from the rain- or whichever tears were from his eyes or the ones which were my own. They were falling onto him; I didn''t care.

    Perhaps, enough water to drown in. I know I drowned.

    The dead bodies of both Skittles and Crayon were just yards away. White fur. White fur that protected hearts that were no longer beating. I refused to look. Too much.

    "Chris." Malcolm''s voice was almost as ragged as mine. Almost. He wasn''t poisoned- at least not that I could tell. I wondered what else happened; at times Malcolm couldn''t use his abilities. Was it just the aftereffects of the Vystir incident? Maybe that was the case, or Joe incapacitated him early, before Malc could do anything. I''m calling the attacker Joe now, I thought. That makes things easier. The un-colored liquid from my eyes, that was starting to run down onto my nose and onto my lip and into my mouth, was no longer water. Not for the first time, I tasted my blood. I am in such a happy place. Happy place, happy place. Happy happy. I didn''t want to know who the attacker was anymore. I couldn''t care about that. It felt as though I couldn''t care about anything. I heard Marie''s voice, calling my name. Calling me.

    Asking me to save her.

    But Joe is a nice friendly name. Let''s call the attacker Joe.

    A strange wave of nausea and very uneven gravity washed over my entire body. An invisible shockwave of grief and exhaustion. Searing hot.

    Joe is going to be sitting in a chair.

    Wyatt is going to set the chair on fire.

    I am going to personally tie Joe to the chair myself.

    My left hand twitched.

    I didn''t mean it. I could never tie anyone, to anything, after the horrors that were inflicted upon me... at an age much too young, in places that were beyond miserable, by "people" that were beyond wretched, beyond cursed, beyond totally evil.

    To even call them people at all: a severely undeserved compliment.

    I shut my eyes for just one moment, the barrage of memories like explosions in the sky; towers and castles coming down onto the earth, all coming down, in pieces. Many times, I was forced to swallow fear like it was water.

    I was forced to swallow a lot of things.

    So.

    Many.

    Different.

    Things.

    Because those "people" did not stop at chemicals.

    Painful: an understatement.

    Traumatic: an understatement.

    I will be the one to tell you:

    Monsters are real. They just look like people.

    There, in the rain, under the darkness, and under the storm clouds that I practically couldn''t even see, I began to hum one of the songs I wrote; I wrote hundreds of them.

    The pain told me where Malcolm''s injuries were.

    I can''t think anymore

    "It''s too much," Malc said to me, in the same voice that he used to tell me I wasn''t being kidnapped or harmed, the day I woke up in his house for the first time, after I jumped off Century Spire. "Chris, please." Somewhere between our heavy breaths mixing and the thousands of raindrops hitting concrete, I heard him sniff. "I don''t want you to hurt."

    What-

    Shut the EFF UP Malc

    Idiot needs to lie to me when I am in SO MUCH PAIN

    What did he say?

    It took me a second to process. I felt my lips move, almost automatically.

    "When did anybody care if I was hurting?" I whispered, without any thought or tact. Literally without thought entirely.

    I shook my head.

    HE IS NOT LYING

    No, he wasn''t.

    But it took me a while to figure that out.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSSSSSS

    Black spots started to obscure my vision. He cared... he did care. I had to believe it. Sometimes, I did.

    Happy place

    Sometimes, I couldn''t.

    Happy place...

    I remembered Belinda Klein''s snake tattoos, the ones that glared at me, staring as the sheets of forged contracts, covert and overt operation proposals, investigations, facial composites, instructions, and crime records flew all around me and down onto the floor. Seething. Their red eyes trying to brand into me that I should not get involved.

    Not to get involved. I was told not to get involved.

    This...

    Was this all... my fault?

    I repeated myself. "When did anybody ever care, if I was hurting?" It was still soft as a whisper. I closed my eyes again. It never happened.

    I blinked my eyes open and forced myself to look at Skittles. A pool of slightly darker gray surrounded the dead, wet body. I later learned that it was blood.

    Malcolm snarled and growled in his gruff Port accent.

    "When Kaylee got you the drive. When Caleb manipulated computers for you." He was begging me to stop, yet I felt nothing, apart from the completely shattered bone in the wrong place and the warmth that I somehow always felt with him. "When James saved you." He paused. "When I saved you."

    Did he save me? He did- or he probably did. He did, I remember thinking to myself. And I knew it. But there was not one good thing that I could call to mind at that time; not one good thing existed in that place and in that moment. If I had any good memories at all, from anywhere at all... they were nowhere. Why did these people waste time on me? In spite of all of the gratitude I usually felt toward them, I felt only like a weight, an abhorrent thing, a waste- something ugly and awful; something nobody should accept, something that should be destroyed.

    It was on his face, the pleading. His hair was some color between russet and chestnut brown, with just a few strands of silver every here and there. Like coffee. It was the color of his mustache and beard, too. His eyes were blue, but not like Scott''s or Caleb''s- it was deep blue. Ultramarine.

    A color I didn''t know existed until I met him; it was the color that, at that moment, my eyes could no longer pick up on. I said nothing. I was shivering and it wasn''t the rain; it was the memories.

    I was a marshmallow tossed into a jet engine.

    "Chris!" he insisted, as the rain grew stronger; as the rain became an almost-welcome distraction. "I can''t see you like this."

    I kept expecting Crayon to bark at me. To tell me it was time to pack up and go, like he would on my Thursday workouts running in the woods- where he would follow me- to tell me it was time to call it a day, get him a bagel from Pacifico, take a shower, have a hot dinner of potatoes or mushrooms or artichokes, on the sand beside the seawater- with Malcolm beside us; with Skittles beside us. Skittles. The adorable white Husky. I heard her little yips in my head; I heard the way she always greeted me after a high-level target takedown mission or after an SRA.

    "Then don''t-" I inhaled a sharp breath, held it, and breathed out as slowly as I could.

    The pain was beyond blinding; more than an open drain underneath your bathtub of sanity, and yet still more than the pain... were the memories.

    I saw streaks of black appear under my eyes. Little memories- of the tortures Kaylee and I endured- swam in my befuddled mind.

    I felt my eyes go from gray to something else, something maybe close to white, close to transparent, close to invisible, close to nonexistent.

    I had nightmares when I slept at night; when I walked past the ruins of that destroyed school- the one in the Lowdown and not the one in the Suburbs- flashes of blood and rope and smoke and dead bodies swam in front of me.

    I can''t see you like this, was what he said. Strands of my hair- black and simultaneously more black than usual- guided the rainwater and tears down my face, down my neck.

    Down onto the ground which I was lower than.

    "Then don''t look."

    --ovw--XVII--ovw--

    The Everglades Hospital emergency room was black and gray. Either that or my eyes still hadn''t recovered.

    "Chris." Caleb''s voice.

    I was facing a wall, which had some kind of painting of some sunflowers. I liked sunflowers.

    But they were black and gray.

    "Danny," said Caleb. "Come on, it''s me."

    The second I turned around, he folded me in his huge caucasian arms. Remember when all I wanted was an embrace? Hurray. I got one.

    I broke his little prison of muscle and hair and walked toward the exit. "I fucked up your jacket, I know."

    He let me take two steps further.

    "Does it ever occur to you that people need you?" said Caleb.

    The light on the ceiling was gray. The nurses'' desk was black. There were chairs on the plain tile floor and they were black. But not black- not a color, but a void. The new tears that wet my face were the color of ash. I turned around despite them.

    "Can you make that make sense to me?" I said.

    He walked toward me slowly. His gaze met mine- I was staring daggers at him without meaning to. About half an hour ago, he telepathically told me to "stay where you are." Behind a gray curtain, fifteen feet in front of me and to my left, were the amazing people that wore gray gloves and masks, trying to fix the exact same damage that was inflicted on me, years ago. I saw no shade of blue in Caleb''s eyes. Just gray, everything was black and gray. I automatically wondered how Crayon was doing, how Skittles was doing. Naturally and out of habit, I felt excitement- imagining me hugging the big white dogs with fluffy tails that wagged whenever I would go to Malcolm''s house again, imagining me getting to pet the lovable, cute things that manipulated no one. Then I coughed, the pain from the poison in my chest digging a frozen hook through my spine and dragging me back into reality.

    "Hey," said Caleb. He put his hands on my arms, gently. "Are you all right?"

    That was literally the dumbest question someone could have possibly asked me.

    "I''m so sorry," Caleb said, telepathically this time. "Stay with me, Chris."

    That was the same exact thought I had myself, less than two hours ago. My head pounded. I wanted to just crumble. To crumble and to let someone else take care of me, maybe for once.

    I cleared my throat.

    "I''m sorry about your jacket," I said. The words were barely audible; I spoke physically and the gas from the canister was still on my throat. "I''ll get you another one."

    "Naw," said Caleb. "Don''t. I''ll give you another one. Mine."

    I didn''t want another jacket. I wanted the warm fluffy things that made up half my family. I wanted not to be in a world where the young were manipulated, or murdered for refusing to be manipulated. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to lie down. I thought about the experiments, and then I started remembering Nightingale. I wished that the jump off Century Spire killed me; that the Experiment took my life.

    Caleb yelled at me. "Chris!" His voice was heated, fuming. Something enraged was taking over the sound of what he normally always sounded like when he talked to me. I didn''t realize his hands were on my shoulders and shaking me until he spoke the next words. "Don''t think like that!"

    I double-flipped backwards without the triple spin, whipping back on the first landing, taking the perpetrator''s kunai-like dagger out of my black jeans'' back pocket and arming myself as I did on the second.

    I looked Caleb in the eye- the exact same way I did on my last night with the unnamed man from the Lowdown, the unnamed evil creature that used me as nothing but a source of income for his abuse chain.

    "Hands off, mind off," I said, my voice still sounding like broken rocks scraping sandpaper. "I have an SRA I have to fight in."

    I sounded like a subtly croaking marshmallow- but behind it, now a growl instead of a faint whimper.

    I flexed my fingers and wrists; glanced over at the blood on them- some of it fresh, blood which the rain hadn''t managed to wash away at all. There were cuts on the sides of my face and shoulders from smashing through walls and through glass. I was almost fascinated- earlier on the same day, they were still some shade reminiscent of red; now everything was gray.

    I cleared my throat, then continued.

    "An SRA I have to fight in injured," I said, "and I''d really like to regain color vision before then."

    --ovw--

    James''s voice boomed through the announcer speakers, which were embedded in the walls of the seemingly boundless arena.

    "The champions are decided when all Fasci Littori are stolen from one Ground of Territory..." He was on an elevated seat, in an elevated platform, in a glass box that overlooked the huge room designated for SRAs- the Coliseum. "...or one party surrenders, or is unable to continue." I watched him smile on the screens above us. His voice was as pleasant and light as it was the day he gave me that first box of antidote vials for Malcolm''s Vystir poisoning; the day Danny wasn''t my name anymore. "As most of you were informed through the agency''s server message, this Srazhenye will be two-versus-two." It was difficult to hear James over the roar of the crowd. I knew these people; did they have nowhere to go on Sunday? "Introducing the blue corner: Elyza Cobb!"

    There were cheers from the laboratory people.

    "Christopher Midnight!"

    Enormous applause- there was always enormous applause and loud cheering whenever my name was announced. People were excited to see me in pain, I guessed.

    "Introducing the red corner: Wyatt Shafer!" said James, who let people cheer before he said "Belinda Klein!" which got no response from the audience. The only sound was me, clapping for her and saying, "Go, Belinda!" And then I coughed because there was gas on my throat.

    I didn''t plan to win through points.

    I dashed into the ring, fast, the moment the transparent wall in front of me lifted and retracted upwards. I still wasn''t breathing normally. My head still ached. My eyes were still watering. I could''ve sworn I still felt the broken piece of bone and torn ligaments. I still felt like a torture victim- though that could''ve just been the rest of my memories.

    And I rasped way too much when I spoke.

    "What?!" shouted Cobb.

    "I said keep them away from the rings," I responded, but telepathically this time.

    "You don''t feel like your normal self," Elyza replied through the telepathic connection.

    "Define ''normal,''" I said.

    I felt the smile in her telepathic energy. "Normal," she said. "A word created by geniuses for something that doesn''t exist."

 the overwoods - full book pt 2

    --ovw--

    The arena was mostly empty space. I never thought about how that worked in my favor before that SRA.

    I picked up speed, into a roundoff to a back with a half, and remained in flight.

    I saw Shafer, standing in the center of the line that ended our Ground of Territory and started theirs, and the other way around.

    Wyatt Shafer.

    Tentacles. He had ten of them. Ridiculously long, horrendously dark purple, slimy things that would come out of his back- somewhere between his shoulder blades- that could grab you and slam you or choke you, or choke you and then slam you and then steal your locker keys. He did that to me, once. And then he apologized.

    There was good in him, and of course I always saw it; there is good in everything, and in everyone- but I could not feel it at that moment. I knew there was good and that good things existed; I could not feel any of the good.

    I flipped, twisted, and spun- the more I did these things, the faster I cut through the air. My current target was a Mr. Wyatt Shafer, and I did not want to make this match last.

    I wasn''t going to give anyone a show. I didn''t care that Scott and Kaylee were in the audience- Henry was too hungover to come to the Webwork, and Caleb knew I didn''t want him anywhere near me at the time- or even that the rest of the Union of Stars'' Overwoods division was watching. I had only one objective.

    The Coliseum was one of the many floors of the Webwork, and as usual kept secret from the rest of The Overwoods. It looked exactly like what a place called the Coliseum would look like: pillars, stone, flat ground. But that was only because James didn''t activate any of the hundreds of simulated training environments. He had the option to do this, and the arena was huge.

    I remember walking into the Webwork that day. Using my card to access the elevators to the 47th floor, walking out the elevator doors, walking up the stairs that led to the arena. Not without first breaking down in a restroom and crying. I put on my own black jacket that fit me much more accurately than Caleb''s, and walked into the enormous space- the space now full of workmates and acquaintances; full of people watching every move. I remember Scott put his hand on my back as a sign of reassurance, and Kaylee hugged me. They wished me luck and I said nothing.

    --ovw--

    No visibility on Belinda Klein, at least not yet.

    "Do you see her?" I said to Elsie, telepathically.

    "No, I''m holding point where our Fasci Littori are and I see no movement."

    "Keep your ears peeled, Elsie."

    "I know. She might be behi-"

    The telepathic connection broke for a split second.

    "All right, she''s got me," said Elsie.

    "Do you need-"

    "No, I can handle her." I felt the grit, the fight in her telepathic energy. "Don''t look back, Midnight."

    Elyza Cobb.

    In addition to an extraordinary IQ and being a telepath, she had other abilities: she manipulated water and ice, and could sense nearby bodies of water, and could also sense nearby sources of lower temperatures- without having to see them; without any tools. I called her Liquid Nitrogen.

    Belinda Klein, on the other hand, had an ability even I had never seen, despite all of my messed up experiences back at the Lowdown and other scary places, and Experiment Nightingale: her tattoos came to life. Anything she had a tattoo of, beware of it.

    I focused on Wyatt.

    "Don''t wanna fight you, Midnight!"

    I skidded to a stop after letting my flight and distance go, tumbling forward until finally stepping out of a front handspring and walking. "What?" I said telepathically. "Wyatt? You''re a telepath?"

    "You haven''t been paying attention."

    "You do interrogations. It''s not my business."

    "You think they''d give interrogations to a non-telepath?"

    "I don''t know!" I replied. "I mean, they kill children! Does anything make any sense to you?"

    His eyes met mine, the tentacles on his back like a mutated animal''s dark wings, wings that he constantly kept moving as long as they were out in the open.

    I continued. "Don''t wanna fight, you say but the tentacles are out. Is it predictable monster hour?"

    Then he grabbed me with one of his tentacles- it was that quick. He was making a mistake. The tentacle was around my left arm and he dragged me across the ground, past fallen pillars and blocks of stone, towards him. It was almost pulling my arm from its socket, but somehow I knew he''d do this.

    I was still ten feet away when he yelled, "I''m trying to be nice to you! I always ha-"

    I was in front of him and this was the mistake. One of my abilities: if I struck someone, and I chose to do it, there would be two results from the hit. One was the impact from the actual strike. The second was a severe burning sensation- not an actual burn, not a mark left externally on anyone''s skin that anyone could see, but a lingering agony, a discomfort that caused people to be impaired and incapacitated. As far as I knew, I only had this ability after Experiment Nightingale. So, in some way, Nightingale gave me an ability that protected me- something I needed badly, especially at eleven years old, and especially if I was somewhere at "home" at the Lowdown, with the man that prostituted me. It didn''t take long to finally get out of there.

    Nightingale damaged me, yet it seemingly gave me a gift... assuming the superpower was really a result of it. My brain could never figure it out.

    A strike of the palm, hard, between his eyes so I wouldn''t break his nose, and he let me go, and then a switch step forward to an even harder kick to his forehead, so I wouldn''t break his jaw or his chin.

    I could almost hear the burning feeling inside him. I felt no guilt.

    "Fuck!" He groaned and moaned and grunted and winced on the ground in front of me. He was in pain and I could see it, anyone could. The deafening roar of the crowd was almost as abstruse to me as the fact that someone was willing to kill animals and people to get what they thought they wanted. Almost, but not quite. "Chris!" he was whimpering now, something I had never ever heard from him before. "Fuck!" he repeated. He made guttural pain noises from somewhere in the back of his throat. "I was... I was going to let you win!"

    I turned to walk away.

    "I mean it!" he said.

    The anger I felt gave full resonance to my voice, like it came back to me in that one instant. "Explain the tentacles."

    He groaned, his face in his hands, trying to soothe a pain that was located nowhere on his skin, one he wanted so badly to tear out, but couldn''t. "I needed... Belinda to believe I was on her side and fighting. So she wouldn''t be suspicious." He groaned in pain again, and this time it sounded like some kind of animal sound. "So... so she wouldn''t tell James. Call the fight off."

    From a distance I saw Elyza and Belinda in what to me looked like an enthralling, almost spellbinding brawl.

    I looked back at Wyatt. "I''m supposed to believe you?"

    "I''m telling you the truth."

    "You stole my locker keys. You''re sick. Don''t pretend you don''t remember it."

    "I said I was sorry. You knew I was. We''ve... gotten better."

    The tremor in his voice broke whatever defense I had on me. "I need to be on this case," I said. "I need to be on this case, without losing my job."

    "I know," he said, barely able to speak evenly. He forced his eyes open to look at me. They were bloodshot already. "Chris," he pleaded. "Can you...?" he trailed off and gritted his teeth.

    Did I really inflict that much pain?

    "I will," I said. "After I win."

    I had one objective.

    "Chris," he said. "Just... a little."

    "No!"

    "Please."

    I took his hand and locked my fingers between his. His dark tentacles slipped back into wherever they went, in his back. He was big, fairly muscular. As far as I could tell, he wasn''t afraid to hurt people. Those were people I felt I understood in some capacity, yet also didn''t understand.

    Just when the color was starting to finally return to my vision, I let my eyes turn gray and counted to sixty. A snake was wrapped around Elsie''s throat; she was on the ground and defending herself from further harm by surrounding herself with spikes of ice that protruded long and sharp off the ground, diagonally and pointed in Klein''s direction. I looked from the screens above us, the ones that captured all that took place, to James in his glass box, to the roaring crowds around us, to where Scott was. He was easy to make out. He was holding Kaylee''s hand, his eyes fixed on mine. Kaylee was on her feet beside him, cheering loudly for both me and Elyza. In her free hand she held up a cardboard sign. "WIN AND WE GET ICE CREAM," it read.

    "Take slow, deep breaths. Kinda like waves on the ocean," I told Wyatt. I guess I felt some kind of guilt- not too much. I remembered other SRAs Wyatt was in. He won almost all of them, the tentacles combined with his brute force a threat as large as he was. I sighed. "You''re a strong man and you know it," I said. "You got this."

    Or he acted like one, anyway. Around me at least. I omitted saying the part where I thought he was a total asshole almost all the time, if not all the time, period.

    He slowed his breathing.

    "No stronger a man than you are," he said, with the hint of a smile and a wink.

    I almost puked.

    "Shut the fuck up."

    I let go, took a moment to position my feet, and pushed off. It took a little more energy and power, than it did without a run or roundoff or handspring or all three. I wanted this to be done- any moment I spent without information was a moment I spent unable to stop this murderer. A child could die. There were enough unprotected innocent people; there was enough evil in the Overwoods. In the world even, perhaps. I wouldn''t know.

    "It''s nice seeing you, Belinda!" I said as I hovered and spun in the air above her. I landed quickly and without any dissent from the dust on the ground, about twelve feet beside both her and the spikes of ice, intentionally. "If you make me do it I''ll push you straight into that. Surrender, now."

    Belinda Klein glared at me. "Why don''t you try it?"

    "Why don''t you come here and make me?"

    From the corner of my eyes I saw Elyza stab the snake with one of her ice spears, again and again without finesse, until it loosened its grip on her neck.

    She walked toward me. Vines, with a few roses and thousands of deadly thorns materialized behind her as she did, following her, a dozen times the size of the actual tattoos.

    And then a tiger launched from her right leg and bounded straight at me. For just a moment, I wore a small and subtle smile on my face; probably just enough for the crowds to make out the dimples on my cheeks.

    Most tigers sprinted at approximately fifty to sixty-five miles per hour, if they were hunting fast prey. This was going to be easy.

    "Cobb, now!" I yelled, just as the snake around Elyza''s neck died and turned to dust, and just as I moved my right shoulder and head and neck back and toward my left side. I stepped back with my right foot. Principles of twisting: wrap, pull, stay tight for maximum spin. This was going to be both a twist and a thrust with the arms.

    The adorable fluffy tiger gave me a hug and tried to bite me to show its affection, but I grabbed both its left legs and spun- the tiger flew towards Belinda, who instinctively stepped backward. But one step behind her was a curtain rod of ice, horizontal, parallel to her hips. She inadvertently flipped backward and onto her hands as her fluffy adorable pet tiger landed on top of her, squishing her and her vines and roses and thorns, making the animal cry out in some kind of roar of discomfort.

    Elyza hastily contained both the tiger and Belinda in a cage of ice, tiny droplets and vapor coming off of the bars. Elyza smiled at me, her blond hair and blue eyes shining in the daylight from the large glass windows and the glass ceiling above us, above James''s platform. For a few seconds as I looked at her I wondered if I really was even gay anymore.

    "We make a pretty good team," she said to me, raising her hand for a high-five.

    "That," I said. "I will agree with, Liquid Nitrogen." I met her hand with mine, and then held it for a while, just because I wanted to. I was smiling; it was my cheery smile, letting the cameras and the people in on my biggest insecurity- my imperfect teeth, and of course the dimples that came with any smile of mine.

    --ovw--

    Inside the ice cage, Belinda tumbled down from on her hands and head and onto her stomach.

    "Congratulations, Belinda!" I said, clasping my hands and jumping up and down. "Elyza and I kinda just taught you a back handspring! We can do them together now on weekends for exercise if you want."

    She looked up and gave us both the evil eye.

    "This match isn''t over yet!" she screamed at us. There were boos from the audience.

    "Can you surrender?" I said. "I sucked a dick for you, just like you told me to."

    Elyza burst out laughing.

    "Or," Elyza said, before bursting out in laughter again and then composing herself, "Chris can just kick you in your sad and probably tattooed buttocks."

    I laughed because the word "buttocks" was funny to me.

    Belinda glared at us.

    "I''ll go get Shafer. You make your decision here." I turned to hop back over to where Wyatt was.

    Just as I positioned to start a vault run, I heard the click and the beep that indicated someone had turned off one of the trackers we had on each of our arms- the combination of sounds that incidated someone had thrown in a surrender.

    "I hope you have fun at that hotel, Midnight," said Belinda in what by far was the most threatening voice she ever used on me. She sometimes used it with James.

    "If you''re concerned about my safety," I said, "I won''t stop you from coming along with. We can use a smart person."

    "Let me out of the cage," Belind muttered, barely audible. "Icicle Bitch."

    I looked at Elyza and raised my eyebrows.

    She smiled back. I remember thinking I might marry her if I wasn''t gay.

    "Yes, Queen Belinda," she replied, an edge of contempt to her voice; a tone of disgust and antipathy. "Unintelligent asshat of the fugly, cheap pink hair dye, and dollar store makeup, bomb sniffer and limping swamp donkey."

    An orange rose, its stem cut clean of any thorns, hit me in the face- a gift from an admirer in the audience, from somewhere in the crowd.

    Surely it wasn''t for me...?

    I flinched, surprised, and then I caught it with my torso and both my hands. I gave it to Elyza.

    I personally didn''t agree too much with the "unintelligent" part of her scornful and very snide comments, but I supposed... I somewhat agreed with the rest of it.

    Elsie gave the rose a sniff and waved to the crowd- which was still cheering madly. She gave Belinda Klein some kind of look; a vicious leer, eyes almost malicious behind her aquamarine glasses which she had strapped on for the SRA fight.

    I looked up, and immediately noticed that James Tobler, head of the Union of Stars'' Overwoods division, had his eyes locked on me. As our eyes met, he gave me a smile that felt... almost genuine; maybe sweet- but there was something about it that bothered me. I remembered Skittles and Crayon and didn''t smile back, and then turned my attention instead to the ice cage which my partner still hadn''t unfrozen.

    Elyza remained there glowering at Klein a moment longer before turning to walk away. Wyatt Shafer''s eyes were watery and red, he limped his way slowly toward us from the other half of the arena- steering himself toward us with the support of two of his inordinately strong, dark, creepy purple tentacles.

    Cobb glanced back at Belinda, as she took the light blue strap off from her glasses.

    "By the way, Belinda!" she hollered, over her shoulder from where she stood. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her finger. "One more thing. Fuck an unmarried man next time."

    --ovw--

    Kaylee ran over to me as I held Wyatt''s hand with both of mine.

    Wyatt was sitting on the floor of the arena. I still didn''t believe I inflicted that much pain. I didn''t feel much... even as I used my pain steal on him. Did he?

    "That was amazing!" Kaylee screeched.

    "It had to be done," I replied.

    "Just let me surrender next time," Wyatt said.

    Kaylee sat next to me on the floor, tucking her skirt and then brushing the dust off her black Civil War Era Ladies'' button boots. She scowled at Wyatt.

    "I don''t even know why he''s painstealing you," she said. "Apart from he''s nice. You know you don''t deserve it."

    "It''s fine," I said.

    And telepathically to Kayles I said, "You''re right. No, he doesn''t."

    I remembered when he stole my locker keys, or my lunch money. And he was twenty! Can you imagine being so miserable you have to do that to people? Can you imagine picking on someone you barely know and younger than you- being an asshole at all?

    Well, he SAID he was twenty.

    Guess what: he really wasn''t.

    To me it was extra strange- because if Wyatt wasn''t being totally horrible to me, he was extra nice. No, not like Kaylee or Caleb were nice to me; he was extra sweet and companionable. To me it made no sense. That was part of the reason why I rejected most offers to be an interrogator- sure, maybe people thought I read criminals or threats or psychos well, because of my experience. But that would have meant hours alone in a room, with Shafer and a sociopath.

    ...so basically with two sociopaths.

    For a while the three of us sat there- me letting my eyes turn gray as the superpower use took color off my vision- all of us watching the crowds wave at us, at me, and then smile as I waved back, as they left the arena.

    I remembered Skittles and Crayon again. Crayon would lick my face if he were here and Kaylee would give Skittles something totally random, like a lima bean or a cauliflower.

    "Your dad went home to check on Henry?" I said.

    "No," Kaylee said. "He went to the office."

    "There''s a million offices."

    Kaylee laughed. "His."

    "So where do we go for ice cream?" I said.

    "Pacifico?" said Kaylee.

    "Ice cream sounds so good right now," Wyatt said. Even then he sounded like he was still in pain. "You have no idea."

    I let a few seconds pass, watching the faraway T-shirts of the audience members disperse and move toward the exits.

    Color was slowly coming back to me.

    "Join us," I said. "And..." I smiled. "I''ve made a decision; you guys get to be in on it."

    Kaylee grinned as she and Wyatt glanced in my direction. Wyatt tried to smile at me but it looked like a grimace.

    "I''m not waiting for ''Monday,''" I said.

    Even thinking about any hotels caused me flashbacks- anything with a bedroom and where one might be alone with someone else.

    ...Or multiple someone else-s.

    "I''m not waiting for tomorrow. I''m investigating the hotel tonight-" I took Crayon''s old collar from where it was in my pocket and ran my thumb over the shiny, golden bone-shaped tag that still had his name on it. "And you guys..." I looked up again to the booth, the glass platform of the microphone, desks, screens and the chair where James sat- to make sure he wasn''t there anymore. "...are going to come with me."

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XVIII--ovw--

    ...is there a difference, between "wouldn''t" or "couldn''t?"

    He was in a black coat, a tuxedo, I think they called it. The man was across from me as I sat on the bed reading my only copy of the Bible. I wanted more books, but couldn''t afford them. The only cloth on my body was half the bed sheet.

    The man took his watch from the drawer and looked back at me. It was maybe the prettiest, shiniest thing I had ever seen then, his watch. Gold and silver, and shining things, I thought it was made of. He smiled at me.

    "You don''t want me to go," he said. "Do you?"

    I looked at the man- he was somewhere in his thirties, maybe early forties? His hair was a mix of blond and some gray.

    "You''re the one that... doesn''t make things hurt too badly," I said. I surveyed his eyes, any nuances in their movement or any movement of his body that was out of his ordinary behavior. It was something I knew to do, from early. How early, I don''t remember. "So I guess not."

    I was always honest with these people. Even the ones that hurt me the most. I was eleven.

    "Do you have kids?" I asked.

    He looked at me.

    "Why do you ask?" he said.

    I shook my head. "I don''t know. Curious, I guess."

    The man put a stack of paper bills on top of a table beside the bed.

    "I''m not supposed to take gifts," I said.

    "You don''t have to tell anyone," he replied, discreetly. Hushed. "Get yourself something nice. Something new to read. A pair of shoes, something."

    "I can''t take it," I said. I tried hard to disguise the disappointment I felt but couldn''t. "There''s a camera."

    The man pulled on his pants, buckled on his belt. From his wallet he took what looked like a card. He placed it on the bed, in front of me. I took one look at it.

    "I know what the Overwoods looks like," I said.

    "Look closer."

    It was a map I thought I''d seen before, marking where the mines were, riddled with the lines that divided the Vicinities. But there were strange symbols on it, symbols that I didn''t understand.

    "What is it?" I asked. "What are these... markers? What do they mean?"

    I took my stuffed husky, which was on the pillows, and hugged it. It was the other valuable thing that I had.

    "Take the money," the man said. "And get out of here." I think maybe I gave him some sort of confused look, because then he said: "You can. Now."

    "I..." I said. "I don''t get it. I''m not sure I believe this."

    "I know you don''t," he replied. "The man who found you at Century-"

    "How do you know about that?" I said.

    "Questions later," he said. I remember feeling more than just confused. There was consternation, concern in his voice; it was on his face. And even to me, it seemed genuine. I was ready to run, from whatever this was. "You''ll find that man at The Port, and you''ll be safe there. You''ll be old enough soon that you won''t be something of special interest here. I know someone that can help you."

    "If you cared about me at all then why do you even keep coming here?" I said.

    "I would have stopped," he told me. I thought there were tears in his eyes, for just a flash of a second. "I couldn''t."

    --ovw--XIX--ovw--

    "They just love killing each other."

    Caleb looked at me, the steam from the coffee cup he held obscuring Wyatt''s face.

    "What?" Kaylee''s voice barely penetrated the film of disgust in my head; the revulsion at the lunacy of those that find entertainment, in the suffering of others- and think only of themselves. "Who?"

    I didn''t even look up from the paper.

    "I don''t need to answer that," I said. "You read my mind all the time." Slowly, one page at a time, I tore the newspaper- each paragraph a fatality of paper just like the words printed on them. The sound of the ripping was almost enough to satisfy me. "Did you get that from one of the dads or from your brother?"

    "What''s with the attitude?" said Caleb.

    "I thought you didn''t mind." Kaylee pushed a paper cup of strawberry ice cream toward me. "And your mind is a nice place."

    "Ha-ha," I said. "So funny."

    "She means it," said Caleb.

    "I''m confused." It was about an hour after the SRA and I was really feeling the ligaments in my left forearm and wrist complaining; it felt like my left hand was on fire. It wasn''t a new feeling, though. "We have a killer to catch and all you can think of is making fun of me."

    "They''re not."

    We all turned to Wyatt. It was the first thing he said since we got here.

    He shrugged. "Your mind is a nice place."

    Excuse me?

    I was ready to jump away.

    "He wouldn''t know that!" interjected Kaylee. She wore a self-created necklace, one that was made of one of my favorite things: sunflowers. She twirled her fingers around them, and they almost glowed in the dark. "He won''t believe us."

    I checked to see if my left hand was bleeding and if there were fractured bone pieces sticking out of the skin.

    Nope not right now

    "So he really never reads people''s minds?" said Wyatt. I glanced over at him. His eyes shifted from Kaylee and back to me. "Sheesh." He locked his black-hole eyes on mine. "Why did they ever consider you for working the interrogatio-"

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    Yes, yes. Orbiplosions. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

    Why they ever considered me for the what?

    Nope

    Let''s not even talk about that.

    Or I don''t know. I had no idea. I didn''t ask for any specific department to work in. I never did. Unless of course you count my vehement refusal to have anything to do with further experiments.

    I HATE THAT WORD

    "What happened to me isn''t a secret to you guys," I interrupted. "Let''s move on. And it''s not like I''m the only one with seriously messed up memories."

    "It''s such a miserable WASTE OF TELEPATHY!" Wyatt said. "You never use it!"

    "EFF YOU POLITELY GO JUMP ON A JELLYFISH," I said exclusively to Wyatt via telepathy.

    He smiled at me. I didn''t know why.

    Also, miserable my butt, coming from the most miserable person alive second only to James Tobler.

    And me.

    And Kaylee.

    The three of us shared that top spot.

    I dropped my gaze to the torn pieces of paper on the tablecloth. Stories of planes dropping bombs, a tank crushing cars with families of innocent people in them, images of dead bodies. Shootings. Stories of more people killed, raped, manipulated.

    All completely pointless.

    "Memories aren''t the only thing you are, Chris." Caleb put the coffee cup down, beside the ice cream. Deliberately on top of the torn sheets, so I couldn''t see all the words anymore.

    I looked up at him.

    "I was reading that," I said.

    Because I bothered to read things that were torn apart.

    "You''re a lot more than that," he said. "Anyone can see that."

    I stared at an ornate streetlight across the street, one that I used to draw cartoon cows on, using chalk that I stole from my primary abuser''s unlocked closet. I learned how to draw cartoon cows from the soggy cereal boxes I''d found, on the floor of the same abandoned building where I first started teaching myself gymnastics. I used the same chalk to maintain friction on my palms and fingers, too. And I remembered how, sometimes, it felt almost like that chalk was magical; almost like the fine white powder on my hands helped me jump higher; rebound harder; calculate my distance faster.

    At least, I think it was chalk...

    I turned my attention back to Caleb.

    Anyone can see?

    His eyes and his voice: the only two things on a person that were powerful enough to somehow captivate me.

    Anyone can see what?

    Anyone could see that a child was murdered.

    Anyone could see that I didn''t care about myself.

    Maybe that was a problem.

    I watched as a white hedgehog the size of a teacup scampered toward me from the sidewalk. It placed a peanut on my shoe.

    Yay, peanut, happy

    I wondered where it got one. The nearest Baker Joe''s was a half-mile away, to my knowledge.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I picked up the peanut. And also the hedgehog.

    I named it Peanut.

    "I''m sorry," I said to nobody in particular. "I didn''t mean to be rude."

    I put the hedgehog down.

    Caleb laughed. It was the familiar sound I didn''t know I craved, one that always took me back to the present. Suddenly, I wasn''t surrounded by monsters. Kaylee was here and she was alive and she was with me.

    So was Wyatt, but eff that politely.

    And... Caleb was here.

    Somehow, even for a moment, I could believe there were a few good people again.

    I smiled. "What''s so funny?"

    No one had to answer me: I was stupid, and it was funny that I was stupid. That was the only possibility. I took the ice cream cup.

    "We''ll need someone fast on the team," I said. "This might be as dangerous as last time."

    "Faster than you?" Connor''s voice. CONNOR''S VOICE. I didn''t bother to look around.

    "Meadows," I said.

    "Midnight," he replied.

    "What are you doing here?" said Caleb.

    "Y''all are planning a thing and I want in," said Connor. He sat down next to me.

    Where did he even come from?

    "It''s Sunday," I said. "Go..."

    I fumbled.

    Go somewhere. Anywhere.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Go be at home," I said. "You know. With the wife."

    Assuming she was there.

    "As I''m sure you''ve gathered," said Connor, "We don''t exactly have a functional relationship."

    Why was that not a suprise?

    "I don''t read minds," I said.

    "Well, he doesn''t have kids so you have nothing to feel too awful about, Chris!" said Kaylee. As with ninety-percent of the time she knew what I was thinking, of course; it saved us time. "He could be a good teammate here."

    "Can we get Sam to come with us?" I said.

    "Chaquille''s sister?"

    "Get her to come with us, Kayles."

    "I..." she said. "I''ll try."

    "Thanks," I said. I got up.

    Caleb laid a hand on my shoulder.

    "I''ll meet you guys outside the Lowdown. Don''t worry about me."

    "And where are you going?" said Caleb.

    I looked at everyone.

    "You already know," I whispered.

    "We still wanna hear it," said Connor. His blue-and-auburn hair moved with the wind, pointing southwest. Almost the same exact direction in which I was about to start flying. "You know. Talk."

    I shook my head, gave them a small smile, and turned away.

    I had to go bury the dogs.

    --ovw--XX--ovw--

    "You wanted me to pretend, right?"

    The shovels leaned against a tree trunk; the afternoon was beautiful- beautiful beyond any description I could have possibly provided; more beautiful than anything I could have ever written on paper. Shafts of sunlight, a strange combination of pink and orange, penetrated through in between the leaves, branches, and twigs above us.

    Malcolm''s Vystir poisoning wasn''t affecting or disabling any of his abilities that day. The fire he started was a few feet to my left. Whether there was any warmth from it, I''ll never know.

    He stood beside me to my right. The large red mantle he always wore glowed, its red a deeper shade in the firelight. He pressed the earth flat, even, with his boot. It was the color of dark chocolate and the dirt beneath it only a shade lighter. He turned to me.

    "Pretend what?" he said.

    "I''m sorry," I said. "Flashback. Don''t mind me."

    "Pretend what?" he insisted, his voice the deep and gruff growl I had grown accustomed to in the years I had spent living together with him.

    "Pretend that I was fine," I muttered, softer than softly. "Pretend that I liked it. It wasn''t directed at you."

    It was silent in the glade, save for some crickets and cicadas in the distance.

    "And I don''t know," I continued. "Maybe I did like it. I don''t even know."

    "You''re not there anymore, Chris."

    "Easy to say."

    He and I stood in a spot in the forest between The Port and the Everglades; behind Vicinity Two. I had been there before.

    Before I knew anything near me had shifted, I was in his arms, the one place I felt as close to validated, as close to wanted, as close to loved as I felt I could possibly ever feel.

    Images flashed in my head and I burned them; I burned them like Malcolm could burn anything on a good day when his Vystir poisoning wasn''t eviscerating him.

    Eviscerating him like my memories do.

    Every day.

    I was a torn pile of shreds of a broken thing. How I walked around anywhere, I''ll never know.

    "Can you tell me how you put up with me?" I said.

    "What do you mean?" said Malcolm.

    Maybe it was my fault. Maybe, if I had gotten the flash drive sooner, gotten to James sooner, delivered things faster, maybe it wouldn''t be as bad. He could be better. Maybe if he never rescued me from being used like a toy for money, he would be fine. Maybe I was just... a bag. That people had to carry.

    The one thing I had spent my entire life trying not to be.

    "I mean," I replied, "How do you believe that there''s anything about me that is worth loving? What about me was worth saving?"

    Why was I so lucky? Why did people like me, why did anyone care; why were people helping me? It was the Overwoods. Abuse was everywhere, crime, evil, awful ugly detestable things were everywhere.

    I was just one of them. It made no sense.

    Malcolm pulled back to look at me. His eyes almost set me on fire, or maybe he just knew how much I was hurting and decided to kill me right then and there using fire, to end it for me. To save me from being hurt and lied to and possessed by scum again.

    "Everything," he said.

    Would Marie have agreed with him? What would Marie say? Maybe I could have saved Marie. Maybe I just didn''t try hard enough; maybe I just wasn''t good enough or smart enough or fast enough.

    Why was I the one still alive?

    Maybe I could have saved her.

    Maybe I could have saved her, and the other girl, too, the one murdered- had I found whoever the killer was.

    Or saved Crayon or Skittles.

    It was the one thing- the one thing that kept me from pulling the trigger when my hands were on the gun, the gun I was going to use three days before my twelfth birthday.

    I''m gonna kill me before you do.

    The words in my mind; the words I wrote on paper.

    It didn''t end then, because, I thought I could help- I thought I could help and make a difference; I wasn''t the only one who suffered and I thought, maybe, I could help someone else. Maybe.

    And that couldn''t happen- wouldn''t happen, if I pulled that trigger.

    Somebody else did but they missed.

    "Hey." Malcolm was almost forgotten, though he was directly in front of me. "Did you hear me?"

    I said nothing.

    The sunlight turned into shadows in my mind, shadows that couldn''t conceal the ropes, the smoke, the brittle skeleton between innocence and hate, between hunger and submission, between forced-to-survive and drugged-to-near-death, the skeleton that was shattered in front of me.

    Too many times.

    "Everything about you," he insisted, "is so much more than beyond worth saving."

    I took a step back. My heart was beating so hard that I swore Crayon and Skittles could hear it pounding from six feet under the ground- where they were now buried- or even from heaven; from wherever they now were.

    They were gone and I didn''t save them, I stayed alive to do one thing and I couldn''t do even that.

    Malcolm almost gnarled at me.

    "Don''t you even think about going anywhere-"

    "I love you," I interrupted rudely. "Just know... that I thank you, for everything."

    He spoke but I couldn''t hear him.

    I continued.

    "I never had a family but you. I love everything you are."

    I tried to quickly blink away all the shadows. It didn''t work- they didn''t go anywhere.

    "I can''t be here right now. I''m sorry."

    My feet took off and I was en route to the Lowdown.

    Spinning through the air, I thought I heard Malcolm call my name from far below, from where I took off. Or maybe it was one of the monsters, the evil people in the shadows. The ones that find entertainment in the suffering of a child.

    I stayed alive, to do one thing. I''ve been only a failure- and only a failure- since I chose not to pull that trigger.

    I was going to end this multi-murderer''s streak, here, now, or I wasn''t going to keep going.

    --ovw--XXI--ovw--

    The orange-pink sunlight glowed all around me as I closed my eyes.

    Dictations only last for so long.

    I remembered reading the sheet of paper, still spinning, still flying over toward the Lowdown.

    "By the time you read this, you''ll either have discovered your powers or this paper will be on top of your dead body. I''ll guess you''re alive because you get everything you want and my attempt to kill you probably didn''t work.

    I just want you to know you''re worthless.

    That you''re pitiful, that everything you do is a mistake.

    People will know you and remember you. And they will say good things about you.

    I''ll make sure you don''t hear them. You''ll hear only me. You will believe only what I said about you then, and what I think about you now.

    Nothing you do is right.

    Nothing.

    I know this, because I controlled you then

    And

    I

    Control

    You

    Now.

    I AM THE POWERFUL ONE

    NOT YOU"

    I think I was about fifteen when I got that letter.

    Having represented law enforcement and the US, and having been both in the Lowdown, and also then out of the Lowdown, threats were now pretty old.

    I still gave them all equal weight.

    I opened my eyes and looked around me. Not too far away I could see the Century Spire Tower; the other towers around it all fallen and crumbled in assorted heaps of silver and black. In a different direction, the Everglades. In another direction, and just barely, because of the distance, The Port.

    I used to always wonder why there were the ones that like to destroy innocent people and destroy beautiful things. Why there were the ones that love to harm anyone around them so much.

    I still wondered that at eighteen, but less. Because at that point I had seen and I had learned, at least a thousand different times, that what goes around comes back around.

    A voice came through in my mind.

    "You''re really not slowing down."

    "I never slow down for anyone, Kayles." I surveyed the roads and the old rivers of dirty water, now just trenches of soil and chopped-off branches and dead leaves- barely a habitat for even the squirrels. I planted some sunflowers there once; a typhoon killed all of them. "Ever. You got Sam to come with?"

    "I''m here!" Another voice- Sam''s.

    I smiled.

    "Thank God," I said.

    "Well, you certainly sound thrilled," said Sam.

    "He''s just glad to have someone else who understands going fast," Kaylee babbled.

    A flash of lightning- far to the east where I had come from. I glanced in that direction for a moment, and then after about twelve seconds, thunder. It shook even the air, hard, like an earthquake.

    "Jesus!" Sam sneered. Her voice hardened as she spoke. "Is there a storm coming?"

    Sam Shilberg and her brother were both adopted; they had virtually no similarities. Sam was a telepath and as fast as I was, minus all the flying.

    "The plants say yes," replied Kaylee.

    "They know these things?" I said.

    "Chaquille said if I dye my hair black and braid it and take painkillers I''ll be a drug addict," Sam rambled.

    I didn''t even think. "That''s his opinion."

    "He''s projecting!" Kaylee laughed. "It''s what some people do. You don''t need to read minds to know that."

    I deposited myself on an abandoned scrapyard north of the Lowdown, first tumbling forwards, and then sideways, and finally backwards to slow down. Caleb was already there waiting.

    The air smelled like rusty metal and rainwater mixed with ocean salt after a hot day. It smelled like what a desert might smell like, if a desert was near the equator where there used to be jungles and if it was where monsoons blew. I could almost taste the seawater in the air, as I slowed my breathing and listened to the chirping of tropical insects. It was 6:45 PM, an hour and fifteen minutes before the time at which we all agreed to convene.

    I glanced up at the sky above us; the orange glow had shifted subtly to red, and was now slowly turning a deep shade of violet. Clouds obscured some of the light from the star that burned far away, as it moved away even farther.

    I was the heavy heart that flew. The one that still smiled at people.

    I said a prayer in my mind and wished Crayon was here.

    "And you still don''t believe your mind is a beautiful place," he told me.

    He had a voice that gasconaded. It was almost condescending. Almost dictatorial. All I knew was that I''d heard that enough- much more than enough- in eighteen years. Much more than enough already in my first ten.

    The way he spoke this last statement was exactly that.

    "You''re about to turn away," Caleb emphasized. "Don''t."

    Caleb Samuel Davenport, a man much larger than I was, a telepath and a technopath and one of the only steady things I had known. To me he was like a fire that glowed in a living room fireplace. The kind of thing your pet dogs or cats would go sit beside. To me he was that place where you''d be if you wanted marshmallows on a stick, if you wanted to tell your elementary school friends stories around a campfire and laugh until you fell asleep in the morning at 5 AM.

    I was shutting people out of my head- something I rarely ever did. If Kaylee or Sam wanted to continue the conversation with me, they''d have to do it another time.

    He frowned.

    "You''ve never done that before," probed Caleb. "Is it something I did?"

    His eyes were like glittering silver gems. It was evening and he usually shaved in the early mornings; at this time the hair on his face was more than just light 5 o''clock shadow.

    "JOHNSON JUNK YARD," read a broken-down sign above me and to my left. "WHERE TRASH AND JUNK BELONG, WHERE USELESS THINGS ARE APPRECIATED."

    It made me smile; I belonged here and I was appreciated here.

    Caleb took both my hands and pulled me to him.

    Because of the physical size difference any embraces between me and him were mostly him with his arms around me and me with my arms folded rather awkwardly in front of me, my hands usually clasped fists on his chest; my face turned to one side, usually the left.

    I closed my eyes.

    "Remember when you said I was the only thing," insisted Caleb, "the only thing you believed would never hurt you?"

    I did say that, once, five hundred years ago.

    Probably under duress or something.

    I held my breath.

    His voice dropped to a whisper. "Have I ruined that?"

    I inhaled. He smelled like soap and brand new jeans from the store and laundry detergent and like a big fluffy dog you would always take with you to the beach on sunny Saturday afternoons, like something that I wanted to hug all the time.

    "No," I said, my eyes still closed and the right side of my face still pressed to his chest where his heart was, its beat as strong and steady as its owner. I furrowed my eyebrows, my face contorted for just a split second. "Of course not. Don''t be ridiculous, you haven''t done anything."

    He was like a big thing, squishing me from above, with his face. He was pressing it into my hair and I liked it.

    "Then why does it feel like I have?" he faltered. "Why does it seem like every time I want you near me, you run away?"

    I had two choices.

    One: I could be blunt and just tell him, "Hey. I''m like that with everyone. Don''t feel too bad about it."

    Two: I could be blunt and just tell him, "We have a killer to catch, literally. And if I don''t help to stop them I am literally going to kill myself, probably by jumping in front of one of the bullet trains. You''ll have to find some other boyfriend to wear your jacket."

    I went with choice zero and pulled back, for a moment, just to look him in the eye- because to me his eyes were maybe the most captivating things I had ever been fortunate enough, to have the opportunity to see.

    "You''re breathtaking," he murmured.

    I said nothing.

    He swallowed. "Do you know that?"

    Why did I love his accent so much?

    I did what I always did when I felt like it- I closed my eyes, pushed up on my toes, positioned my chin above his left shoulder, and moved my cheek against his. Idly, gently, slowly; softly like the songs I wrote on supermarket receipts. I would imagine some sort of big cute animal, like Aslan from Narnia. He was so adorable! The cutest lion ever, as far as I could tell from the ancient poster in my school library. To me there was something about the prickly and rough surface of Caleb''s face that I loved, something about the sensation that calmed me, each time I did it. It was different for him- as my breaths slowed, his would always turn fast, uneven, ragged breaths almost. I would both hear them and feel them; directly against my right ear, along with the rapid contracting and expanding of his chest against mine.

    Still I said nothing; I let the calm take over me.

    Caleb was just barely audible, when he spoke to me again.

    "Do you know how much I love when you do that?" he whispered. Panting almost, like he was short of breath.

    I pulled back again. "No," I said. "I don''t read anyone''s mind. You know that."

    "Maybe you should," said Caleb.

    "It doesn''t feel right to me." I smiled. "You don''t need to agree with me. It''s just my opinion, how I feel. I''m completely respectful of all other telepaths."

    "The only other telepath here is me," Caleb insisted.

    "Can I ask you to kiss me?" I said.

    "Aw, Chris..." he trailed off, still breathing like a wolf after a thousand-mile sprint to catch a magical flying loaf of bread. "You''re about to get more than just a kiss."

    Saying that you got a soul

    Just because you know that you are going to hell

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Do we believe when we say, "never really going to need?"

    --ovw--XXII--ovw--

    Lights the color of assorted ice cream flavors and cartoon comic book advertisements.

    Underneath the droning, broken 7-11 sign that glowed its neon orange, white, and meteoric shamrock green, with black and dark brown brick as her background, I saw her.

    Kaylee.

    I smiled.

    She gripped her arrowvines tightly in her left hand- the hand that was almost as damaged as mine. She wore jeans and a purple jacket tonight; quite a switch from her typical light orange double tank top, shorts and Converses.

    I saw her from two miles away, several blocks from Hotel Il Male Nekantral.

    #67 DIRTWATER AVENUE LOWDOWN 1216.

    I was walking slow, too slow, and only because Caleb''s gait was that of a sea turtle trying to carry four crates of McIntosh apples and pie.

    TURTLES ARE CUTE YAY

    My feet had positioned themselves already and I was already fifty percent in launch position, when I noticed Caleb''s arms- which without my cognizance were wrapped around me from behind- and I realized I might hurt him if I fired myself toward Kaylee.

    TURTLE = CUTE

    DOG = CUTER

    : DDDD

    "Caleb," I said. "Kaylee''s already there. I think the others probably are, too. Let''s go."

    I rolled my eyes, at both Caleb and at myself. I had to try to be more serious, in his presence. Otherwise, I''d have just melted all the time. Yes, more serious even while thinking about how cute dogs are.

    "CALEB."

    He only tightened his lock on me, in response. I felt the heavy, hard, and forceful beat of his heart, pressed directly to the back of my shoulder; an driving, intense beat- as fast as it was half an hour ago. It felt exactly the same, still.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    I remember when I wanted a turtle for a pet

    Dude Kaylee probably be waiting like wth bro

    I shook my head for a moment. Was I really still thinking about turtles?

    BUT THEY''RE CUTE!!!

    We had only minutes until rendezvous. I stood still, feeling Caleb''s breath on my hair and the contracting of his muscles and his chin on my head.Stolen novel; please report.

    "You need to..." he gasped. "You need to slow down."

    ME = SLOW DOWN?? = PROBABLY NO

    He knew me long enough to know that''s just something I don''t do.

    "You''re joking, right?" I said.

    I heard the massive smile in his voice when he answered.

    "No." He laughed. "No, I''m not."

    I watched the flaming magenta and bronze combustiflies slowly buzz and hum all around us like hummingbirds- larger concentrations of them wherever the damaged, flickering streetlights were. These animals literally burned, like Malcolm''s deep red mantle did, at times.

    The thunder seemed to have stopped... although, for all I knew at the time, I had just experienced the most wonderful, hammering, heart-stopping, superhuman thunder there was out there.

    "You know," said Caleb, his voice having dropped to some kind of uncharacteristic breathy whisper, which almost shook on its way out, "There''s more where that hammering came from."

    Shit.

    I broke out of his arm prison. I turned to face him, and we locked eyes.

    "Stop being attractive-" I squealed in what sounded like the squeak of a frightened mouse, yet somehow human still and definitely blended with half a cup of embarrassment and a sprinkling of diced fear. "I''ve gotten enough distraction, thanks."

    This marshmallow was melting.

    A raccoon- the same one I saw after infiltrating the drug house- trotted mellowly on the concrete in between us. It had a peanut in its hands, which it then left on top of one of my old, beat-up black sneakers.

    I decided to name it Happy. Happy the raccoon scuttled away before I could pat him or hug him or get him another popsicle. Half-popsicle. I watched his gray-and-brown-and-white fur disappear beneath some toppled veneers outside a long-abandoned antique store.

    White fur. I remembered Crayon- Crayon and Skittles. The best two white-fur family members anyone could have ever possibly asked for. These two big fluffies weren''t just dogs, to me. To me, they were protectors and friends and bodyguards and training buddies that followed me whenever I''d roundoff to whip with a full to back handspring my way to the beach or to the library.

    Combustiflies hovered in midair, their flames illuminating the look of abject, acheronian dismay on Caleb''s face.

    Guilt clutched at me; I wasn''t yet sure why exactly.

    "What?" I said.

    "That''s all it was to you?" he replied.

    "What do you mean?" I said.

    The stubble of yellow and silver hair on his cheeks was still glistening, and not with rain but with sweat; I watched him breathe- breathe almost desperately- for several moments that to me seemed almost endless, before he finally spoke to me again.

    "Distraction," he said.

    I rolled my eyes up to the sky. Still somewhat cloudy. Very dark purple. Wherever the moon was, she wasn''t above us, tonight.

    I didn''t see what the point to this conversation was.

    "No," I replied. "Of course not. You read my mind, too."

    I buttoned up his jacket, which his father cleaned up for me. Scott.

    I continued.

    "So you know it," I said. "You already know."

    "Well, it hurts," he demanded. His accented particularly displayed itself at the word well. His voice was slow, was heavy. Was deep. Almost the perfect exact opposite to mine. Not quite growling, not like Malcolm''s, also not too lullaby, like his sister''s. Lullaby''s not an adjective. Is lullaby an adjective? His voice was molasses; mine was butter, and soft bread. "It still hurts, to hear you say it like that."

    "Like what?" I said.

    I saw something I hadn''t seen before; hadn''t seen in a lifetime. His eyes- which shone just like ice on what we called a freezeover day in the Overwoods- changed.

    I was scared. I was worried that perhaps, and for all I''ve seen this was nowhere near impossible, he might turn into a giant waterproof earthbending omnivorous rabbit and eat me. I had no idea what it was, until I realized it was just water- a coat of tears, in front of the silver and gray and blue sea- the sea I was so completely, totally, absolutely lost in, in only the last hour. I had never been so drowned in any sea in my life, the way I was tonight. The sea that to me, was my only approximation of love, of safety.

    "Hey." I put my hands in his jacket pockets, looked down at the little peanut Happy gave me as a gift, and inched toward him slowly; to let him put his arms around me because I think he liked doing that. I liked it, too. Most of the time, at least.

    His arms were maybe twice the size of mine and in most situations a thought like that caused me only fear, and an intense, screaming urge to run away. That''s not what I felt this time, as he once again put them around me.

    "Say something to me," he said.

    I looked up, to see the water was still in his eyes. But he was smiling again.

    "You were in my mind again." I didn''t like it. But it''s not like there was some other way I would''ve turned this around so soon, either. "Weren''t you?"

    "Say something to me," he repeated, his voice slurring and mumbling, like Connor''s or Belinda''s or Henry''s voices did- when they were too intoxicated- though neither of us consumed alcohol.

    "I love your accent," I said. "Like, so much. It''s unimaginable." I felt like an animal in a trap- possibly a marshmallow cat. Or a cat marshmallow. The instinct to slink away and fly was overbearing. "It''s insane. It drives me mad. Like, in a good way. Can you let me go now?"

    "No," he said.

    "I love you, Caleb," I said.

    He looked down at me. A tiny drop of water fell from his left eye and into mine; I had to blink it away. His smile was forcing crow''s feet next to his eyes. I had them, too, even at eighteen. I smiled a lot.

    "Please don''t laugh because I love your laugh so much," I squeaked. I was virtually choking in my own misery and embarrassment. "And really, just don''t. We have a killer to catch and I owe your sister some kind of flower vase now that we''re late."

    And I had a train picked out already if we didn''t catch this murderer. And/or rapist.

    Caleb''s voice dipped low, lower than it was already by default. He gripped my arm, hard, the right one- because he knew if he did the same to my left arm or wrist, it would hurt- and his smile was gone; in a flash, in that single moment.

    "What was that?" he insisted.

    "What?" I said. "What was what?"

    His eyebrows furrowed. They were the same color as corn in a sunlit field of puppies and grass and foxgloves and columbine- yes puppies like the small dogs- on a happy, clear, sunny yellow afternoon. They were the color of sunflowers.

    "Your last thought. The one just now." He was some combination of angry and afraid, and he was trying to keep the angry part under control so as not to scare me away. Doesn''t matter. I wasn''t going anywhere. "Something about a train."

    He wasn''t tuning in. Wasn''t listening close enough. I shut him out of my mind and put on a smile.

    "Trains are funny," I said.

    I laughed- an insane, anarchic laugh that was way too pronounced and I can just about guarantee Kaylee and Sam and Wyatt (and Connor, wherever he was) all heard it too and perhaps assumed it was some random, unimportant, homeless, prostituted vagrant beggar- which, of course, I was- because of its sheer volume in decibels and its high pitch.

    "You shut me out. You shut me out again, and you don''t do that." He was demanding an answer. One I wasn''t really sure I had for him. I could see him trying hard not to sound or look like he was yelling at me, which I appreciated. "Chris, what''s going on?"

    I said nothing with a smile on my face.

    "Chris." He was pleading now. "Talk to me."

    I''m not that important was on the tip of my tongue, but that would have been a giveaway. So instead I said:

    "We need to catch this guy or gal, Caleb. We''re fine. I just don''t want my random train thoughts distracting anyone that might want to read this mind, tonight. Okay?"

    Unconsciously, I ran my hands up his arms, slowly, and took his face in my hands, just because I wanted to. My body did it before I knew it happened. There was too much void inside of me, to feel embarrassment now.

    He probably had a lot to say and we didn''t have the time, so I spoke before he could.

    I wasn''t sure if he could tell how much my own words were cutting me into little pieces as I spoke them, still smiling. "Race you there."

    --ovw--XXIII--ovw--

    Speeding into me,

    Like a bullet train,

    It''s the last thing I will see,

    Speeding into me,

    Like a bullet train,

    It''s the last thing I will see.

    I wasn''t looking for a lighthouse.

    Even though it was a really dark bedroom.

    from "Lighthouse"

    --ovw--

    Nightingale

    Day #73

    Subprocedure Fifteen

    I vomited the foul mix of tranquilizers, Vystir, opiates and sedatives they forced into me- not by syringe this time, but by pulling me by the hair and neck, and then shoving my face into a basin of water, mixed with rubbing alcohol, phenacyl chloride, and cyclohexene, until I surrendered to consuming it.

    The dead body of the boy in front of me seemed to speak to me; he seemed to say, "It''s over for me, I''m at peace."

    "There''s ten of you left," said the man that wore a mask today and not a helmet- the same man that pushed me here through hallways and glass rooms that contained bodies. Bones and cadavers. The departed kids that seemed to mean absolutely nothing to these people. "I''m proud of you for making it so far."

    I had no head, no heart, no more meaning or significance; whatever words came out of my mouth at that point, was whatever part of my soul still bided; whatever spirit still remained of me.

    "Water," I wheezed.

    I turned my body slightly and vomited again, this time not even feeling the contraction of my stomach or throat, and comprehending only the pounding of the ice and the shattering of mountain-sized glaciers in my head. Tears ran down my half-naked body and onto the carmine marble floor.

    The man took a key card from his pants pocket and pressed it against a panel on the wall. The dark, red door next to it unlocked with a click, and he turned the handle.

    "Follow me," the man said.

    The cast polymer sink in front of me was full of my blood, and still-bubbling chemicals. I heard the man and yet I didn''t, because there was a scream in my head- one that attempted to release itself, constantly, but only managed to form itself into little running whimpers that accompanied my every inbreath and outbreath.

    "Water-" I wheezed again, in between floods of pain that choked me, that twisted my muscles, twisted my bones and lungs.

    In a moment of extreme affliction, I longed for the defiled bed sheets, I longed for the scripted, staged manipulation- the abuse I was constantly subjected to; I longed for the familiar powerlessness as other depraved beings took what they believed they needed to get. It was nothing, nothing compared to this. I was begging for it in my mind; anything, anything at all, anything but this.

    An entire life cycle of nonexistence, disarray and darkness seemed to pass before I uttered my next word.

    "Please."

    The man took me in his arms and carried me into the room, which was dark and seemed to be lit only by some candles, and a lava lamp which stood on top of a dresser. The dresser was a fascinating thing; it glowed, it was the color of a very dark night sky, and it was patterned with what looked like tiny little stars- stars that blinked and glimmered and twinkled, just like real stars did. Beside the lava lamp was a small stack of books. One of them was a Bible.

    I remember thinking, "Oh, he reads the Bible, too," until I realized it was mine.

    The man returned from wherever he went with a wineglass of water. My hands were shaking too badly for me to hold it, to hold anything at all. The man held the vessel to my lips; it was all I could do, to even swallow.

    I opened my eyes and saw this man seated on the bed, upper body poised to mine.

    "You know what happens now," he whispered to me. "Don''t you?"

    I shut my eyes again.

    Of course I knew. Men and women both, but mostly men- I had been through this, so many times, before. I didn''t ever have to do anything. Apart from whatever I was told to do.

    In some ways, it was already so easy.

    But there are certain things that can take a lot of you, and never give back; you never ever get it back. They don''t take a part of you or a piece of you. There is a safety that is offered to everyone in this universe, and that safety is gone forever, and so are you.

    --ovw--

    [[bonus note from the author:

    the recording for lighthouse is not found in nonfiction ii, it is found in nonfiction i (marshmallow songs). both albums are accessible on spotify as well as other platforms.]]

    --ovw--XXIV--ovw--

    The brass knuckles on Sam''s right fist gleamed, reflecting the deep orange blaze from the cigarette in Connor''s hand. A megacigarette- the same kind Belinda smoked; the same kind Chaquille sold.

    "Did Chaquille really overdose?" I said. "I mean, I heard it from Klein, is all. I haven''t seen him."

    "Wouldn''t know," Sam replied, almost scoffing. "Not like I see him."

    There was an intense flash of lightning east of us, for a moment illuminating the dark, broken up asphalt in front of us.

    Dirtwater Avenue. Street of Hotel Il Male Nekantral.

    "Thing''s abandoned," said Connor, blowing smoke in my face. "D''you even need us here?"

    I coughed. The chemicals he breathed tasted like salt, but not salt that came from the ocean- like salt composed of substance and dependence and disease, biting at my nose and eyes as it hit my face; it smelled like addiction itself.

    For a place in the Lowdown, the hotel wasn''t actually that bad- cement, plastic, carbon fiber, and glass; something deserted, an almost forgotten building looming over us. It overshadowed the rusty garbage bins, the piles of broken lumber, discarded ceramic scraps, puddles of human urine and oil and rainwater and malaria and salmonella. Teal arabesque on mauve tapestry and gloom seemed to stare down at us from the windows of stories above us. Sam and I stared back up at them; Connor consumed his poison- just one of his favorites. The peeling olive paint revealed rough, cameo pink silicone. It was the same shade of pink as Sam''s highlights- the ones braided in her otherwise blond hair. Like her brother, she sported a black leather vest. But on her bare arms, instead of tattoos, was a vast array of bangles, bracelets, and trinkets. One of them had a fish on it.

    "I think I do." I stayed in the shadows surveying Sam''s collection of little ornaments. One of them was like a rainbow, but in a rectangle, instead of an upside-down "U" or semicircle. Underneath it was what looked like a small brown fox, with the most adorable fluffy white mane ever. I instantly wanted one as a pet. I wondered if they existed and I could get one. "This is the Overwoods, Connor." Another was a cat with a yellow nose. It wore a pink ribbon on its left ear. "Do you remember last time?"

    I heard Connor spit and then huff. Then puff and huff again. I dropped my gaze to his eyes. They were a similar brown to mine, but darker, with scleras and even parts of his eyelids turned red by the chemicals; his hair was auburn and blue. He seemed to almost have whiskers, wispy little neon blue strands of thinning, twiggy hair that were half invisible; there, but transparent- fully invisible only if he was. He was taller than me, of course, because almost all people were.

    The hotel seemed to almost beckon us inside.

    "Sure do," he said, before spitting, yet again. He flicked his cigarette with some sort of churlish, crabby look on his face. "Darned hard to forget, I reckon."

    Enormous black sewer rats scurried from dumpster to dumpster, to gutter, to derelict bar and back. They made strange chattering noises behind us, on the sidewalk across from the 7-11 sign.

    "Right." I stared at the concrete in front of my beat-up black running shoes. I took a breath. "A lot of things are hard to forget." I was hoping that maybe Happy the racoon would make an appearance because I was lonely. Well, maybe not lonely. But the memories were tearing me to pieces again. "Also, I didn''t invite you."

    A combustifly perched on my left shoulder, and before I could gently brush it away so it wouldn''t burn Caleb''s jacket, Connor took the little thing by its wings- with his rough, pale fingers- and used it to light himself yet another stick of harmine and toxins. As I stood there I remembered reading about morphine diacetate in a book, and about how some of these sticks contained the harmful compound- it was maybe his fiftieth stick that day.

    I almost said something, when Connor threw the combustifly on the ground and stepped on it.

    My eyes widened as it zapped and flickered- its last combustion- in a small, stellar fireworks display of bronze and shining magenta sparks; dazzling, brilliant confetti that burst from under Connor''s dull cordovan boot.

    My body reacted before my mind did and I realized it only when Connor was on the ground in front of me and I registered my own voice echoing on the street.

    "KILL ONE MORE," it said, "AND I''LL DO THAT AGAIN WITH IGNITE ON."

    My soul came back to me and I spoke again, in a less nasty tone. "Go disappear, Meadows. Now. And please, for me, cut down on the cigs if you can."

    After muttering something unintelligible he vanished, and Sam and I stood there to wait. I glanced over at the 7-11 sign- the same one where Kaylee waited earlier.

    She would be in position soon.

    --ovw--XXV--ovw--

    I looked away from the 7-11 sign and approached the entrance to the building. Sam followed.

    "Midnight," she said.

    "Yes," I responded.

    "She''s on the roof," said Sam.

    It was always majorly awesome to me, to have Sam on any kind of team. Like, a MASSIVE asset, a huge plus. More so emotionally than anything else. Undoubtedly one of my favorite Union of Stars fighters; one of my best friends. A week ago we''d visited the Port with alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks from Pacifico (you can probably guess which ones were mine) and chocolate cake to mourn her loss of an SRA- she was beaten by an athletic female agent named Denice.

    I couldn''t blame Sam at all, though- Denice Lyca Zambaia had actual super strength combined with expensive formal training that neither Sam nor I ever really had. I lost to her myself, probably five thousand times more frequently than Sam did- I no longer kept count- and Zambaia was truly a powerful force in her own right. I worked with her, too, on occasion.

    Like if they needed someone who could fly.

    "She''s such a hoe," Sam said as she sobbed on my shoulder at the beach with the sand beneath us. It shifted with the grayish Overwoods saltwater (it was grayish during the summer and tasted a lot like canned shrimp) and molded to our butts. Her alcohol breath didn''t bother me as she cried some more and said, "She''s such a hoe, I''ll murder that hoe, I''ll murder that hoe." She rapped one of her favorite verses unintelligibly even though it had N word in it. She drank more alcohol and sobbed some more. "I''ll murder that hoe," she said again.

    And again.

    She didn''t mean it literally of course (I think)- Lyca was actually very respectful and mostly nice. You just didn''t want her accidentally sitting down on your unfinished paperwork or your freshly collected evidence or your facial composite sketches because if she did you would never get that stuff back, and you would probably cry.

    Well, I did anyway because I learned that the hard way.

    Belinda still POUNCES on me about it.

    Which makes no sense- like, I AM NOT THE ONE THAT SAT ON IT.

    Flash forward to the present day and no- Sam hadn''t murdered Lyca (to my knowledge), so good on her. Wonderful human.

    I tapped two fingers to my right temple, next to my eye, and flicked them forward. Time to move.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--

    Nightingale

    Exact night or day not yet confirmed

    Subprocedure unidentified

    Purpose unclear

    I stared at the fractured bones of my left hand. The skin was punctured from the inside. Exposed, crushed blood vessels and soft bone marrow all grinding against each other stared back at me. The rest of my body was a red and yellow jam.

    I looked up, at the seemingly endless vertical tunnel in which I had been tossed down. My right hand was bound tightly to my right ankle with rope that I couldn''t break. My mouth was still bleeding; a tooth chipped and broken from trying desperately to chew it off and failing because there were too many layers of the rope, too tightly bound. My right hand was a sickly dark purple and black color combo- whatever blood inside of it had probably already rotted. I could try only to move my fingers. Awful, hair-raising weeping sounds that I heard all around me echoed off the walls of the horrible tiny pit, engulfed my body with all its insanity. It was an unearthly sound. As though a monster''s spawn had been taught to cry through a hole in a broken prison stockade.

    I realize, now, that all those weeping sounds were my own.

    The dead body of a girl I once knew lay on the harsh rocky bottom of the pit. My body also lay there, unable to breathe, unmoving. My skin was broken in a million places; the palm of my left hand reduced to thin slices of human flesh hanging and flapping off of a bleeding human chopping board. I was cold, but burning with untreated fever at the same time. I felt like the only water I''d swallowed in the last twelve hours was my tears.

    And the chemicals they forced into me.

    I stared at the metal ladder to my right. It was finger-painted with hemoglobin and plasma, strands of my hair, broken bits of my fingernails. It was also covered in vomit.

    A man''s loud, domineering voice spoke from far, far above.

    "If you''ll keep quiet about us," it said, "I''ll let you out of there. Just promise you won''t tell anyone."

    No response. The weeping noises continued unabated.

    "If you just cooperate," the same man said, "I''ll toss you a chicken sandwich. We just need to make sure you don''t ever tell anyone what we do."

    Even then, my stomach turned. What we do. They already failed to brainwash me. Twice.

    Some things are better kept secret, a voice spoke in my head.

    It wasn''t mine.

    I looked at the body that was decomposing on the barbed, spiky granite floor right beside me. I looked at the ladder again.

    I had already fallen. Nineteen times.

    I looked at the body again.

    I was so hungry...

    --ovw--

    But the only reason you sing

    is for you to scream badly

    and say, "Oh, I wish I was"

    Until you push it all out to the end,

    see what you''ll never be

    Not now

    Not tomorrow

    I''m setting fires

    Sometimes, evil people put you into positions you think you can''t climb out of. Sometimes, evil people put you into situations you literally can''t climb out of.

    Remember one thing.

    Their evil will swallow them before it swallows you.

    I''m setting fires, setting fires

    I''m setting fires.

    --ovw--

    Sam locked her vibrant blue-and-green eyes on mine for just a moment. I knew she was reading my mind, and I didn''t stop her.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "What we do"

    "Just cooperate"

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    And then Sam spoke her own words into my head, loudly, overriding all the other ugly, traumatic, horrible things that I was starting to remember. It was a blast as hard and as loud as her famous knockout blow.

    "I WILL SEND THEM TO HELL FOR YOU," she said. "Just promise me you''ll stick around."

    Only one tear fell when I responded, telepathically.

    "I don''t know the future, Sam," I said.

    "If you don''t stick around, you won''t see me beat up Zambaia."

    I tapped two fingers to my right temple, next to my eye, and flicked them forward. Time to move.

    Sam didn''t hesitate- within a millisecond I watched the colors of her accessories zoom up the exterior emergency stairs, broken at every fifth step or less, but she was more agile than even I was.

    I threw my roundoff into the hotel''s veranda and blocked off the railing for a vault, spinning fast upwards and toward the top floor. A window facing north was waiting for me, its strengthened glass already broken for me, by Wyatt. With my left hand I grabbed onto a vertical steel pipe, using it to swing myself in the right direction, while taking the earpiece from my jeans pocket with my right.

    I wondered why Belinda never told me the hotel was now abandoned. It wasn''t in her files.

    Ropeweed, set up by Kaylee, draped over both sides of the opened entryway on the sixteenth floor- her proactive contingency effort- in the event of any form of miscalculation or bad weather or me aiming for the wrong window; in the event of any explosives or flashbangs. I landed on the carpeted floor without needing to roll or flip further.

    I pressed two fingers to the earpiece and listened. If anyone else was here, they were awfully quiet.

    "IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME

    I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    -M M

    PS

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN"

    It was just barely worth thinking about. With all of my experiences- from Nightingale to Lowdown to Union of Starts and Webwork, all assignments and back- there were too many potential suspects. Even then, it could be anyone we hadn''t encountered before. Or had no files on. Not yet, anyway.

    "MISSED YOU

    CAN''T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN

    - M M"

    How many people were there? How many had I worked for, or serviced, or apprehended?

    I already knew, even as a prepubescent child, that there were psychos. Yes, I believed all people were a mixture of both bad and good- but I had seen both sides well.

    Did the "M M" part even stand for Manila Maniac? This place was called that eons and centuries and ages ago. Whoever it was, maybe they had a knack for history.

    It bugged me to think of the people I knew who did have some kind of this knack; for accounts, annals, or archives...

    Again, I remembered Marie. I had saved Kaylee. Perhaps, I had saved Malcolm. Perhaps I saved James once.

    But Marie...

    Was it that I wasn''t trying hard enough?

    Soundlessly I took the electronically duplicated key- the one that Caleb created just for me via his technological manipulation- and held it in my right fist so hard I felt my blood might start dripping onto the floor, the way it so often did during Nightingale. And not just mine; Marie''s, Kaylee''s, and all those other kids. I still remember the names of the ones I had met.

    Sixteenth floor, 1615.

    "Arrowvine," I whispered into the piece. "Do you read me?"

    "Copying clear," said Kaylee.

    As far as I knew all our telepathic channels were off; if whoever our suspect was, was telepathic- we didn''t want to give them anything.

    "Sightings," I said.

    "Negative, Marblefox," she responded. "Hide nor hair. Stringweeds haven''t been tripped."

    "Team- radio silence. Two minutes."

    I approached the door slowly while maintaining my situational awareness at its highest.

    Caleb, Connor, Sam, Kaylee, and Wyatt- in that order- responded in almost-unison. "Roger, Marblefox."

    Across from me on the sixteenth floor lobby, which was totally void of any light source, was what to me looked like a barely moving shadow. Naturally there was fear. But more powerful than the fear, was determination. There wasn''t going to be another Marie.

    I stayed perfectly still and allowed my eyes to adjust further.

    That''s when something struck me from behind.

    Or, it would have, only I sensed it first.

    An arm and a fist flew over my head and my right shoulder as I sidestepped, fast, both left and backwards- simultaneously going into backwards bridge to immediate kickover, effectively kicking the weapon out of this attacker''s hand.

    Without needing to see where it was in the empty space, I spun in the air towards my right and caught it in my left hand.

    Identifier #1: A dagger. Shaped almost like a kunai.

    Whoever it was was capable of throwing.

    Or they held this weapon for some other reason...

    "Break radio silence," I said through gritted teeth and turning ignite on. "Convene at sixteenth- anteroom."

    A raspy and very Vicinity-Four-influenced voice replied.

    "Alacrity to Marblefox- already at eleventh; moving to sixteenth anteroom."

    Alacrity was only one of Sam Shilberg''s multiple call signs- just like how Marblefox wasn''t the only code name I ever had.

    My first official team assignment was how I met Sam. At the time, her hair was dyed light green; it was in multiple long braids that swayed down her shoulders with glowing pink highlights. That first co-op job was about a year before our night at Il Male Nekantral- only a few weeks into my "alignment" under James. That first time, I remember how Sam walked toward me like a supermodel on a runway as she popped pink bubble gum and shoved a massive rifle into my arms, and said, "I heard you''re a human painkiller. Good, ''cuz I LOVE painkillers."

    I replied immediately with, "Hi, I''m literally gay. You must be Edge. I''m so super happy to meet you!" And I tried to shoot magic rainbows through my hands because I was uncomfortable with the gun and because she herself looked like a rainbow and I wanted to be like all relatable and stuff.

    But there was no need.

    I remember noting how strong her accent was when she popped her gum again, chewed, and replied with, "Yeah, me too. You get to call me Sam." She pulled a folded piece of paper from a jacket pocket and snorted whatever was in it, then said, "Let''s do this, Morphine."

    I remember how her black-and-yellow striped pants made her look like a bumblebee; a bumblebee with the most breathtakingly colored eyes.

    Subconsciously maybe I basked in that memory for a second, while in the fight, and then I really had to put my focus back on to aforementioned fight at hand because that one-second worth of throwback was the one-second moment when the unidentified attacker stuck a different knife- one that I didn''t previously see- five inches deep into my right shoulder.

    I felt it but I didn''t even look at it- and I knew what I was going to do.

    "This is going to burn," I said politely.

    I pulled the sharp blade out immediately and responded with a heel to the attacker''s neck; I followed with a sweep, to a leg lock, and then to the quadruple-twisting forward somersault dropkick that won me my first and second SRAs.

    What did I do under duress?

    I set things on fire. From the inside, if it so suited me.

    I pocketed the second weapon as both my feet made contact- still in midair- and then pushed back into a reverse spin to my right side before piking and then tucking for the sideways landing. The height and power of the recoil- or the "block" as I sometimes called it just because gymnast terminology- gave me enough air time that Sam was on the same floor as us before I actually landed.

    Then I looked at the wound; tiny, minor. So minor compared to other stuff I went through at the three-month experiment of pure torture.

    Practically negligible to me because five inches deep was nothing compared to the horrors of those three months- that was the mindset I was in while in the fight.

    I saw the accessory colors zoom directly toward us- toward the unidentified attacker and I- in pink and light green and yellow, all shining and reflecting the scarce luminescence from outside as Kaylee spoke to the team again via telepathic web.

    "Marblefox!" She was panting. "Multiple stringweeds tripped-" she was gulping air fast. And I knew she wasn''t the fastest. "Pursuing approximate location of unidentified potential suspect."

    A very short and very one-sided exchange of hands, feet, fists, knees, and elbows ensued between Sam and the attacker while I responded to Kaylee and stitched the spurting wound on my shoulder myself- standing on two feet.

    Because the cut was deep.

    And, you know, because I didn''t want too much blood on my GYMNAST with the capital G T-shirt.

    Capital YMNAST, too.

    "Approximate location, Arrowvine." I watched Sam, a grin on her face, an expression that reached her emerald-and-turquoise colored eyes- eyes just like the color of the snow here in the Overwoods sometimes- halt in a perfectly poised body position, ready to put this attacker into an arm or neck lock.

    "Northeast, Marblefox." Kaylee responded, between audibly wheezing for air, out of breath, inhaling sharply. The color of her connection and binding- the colors visible only to stronger telepaths- was alternating between ice blue and pure black.

    Sam threw her right fist into the attacker''s rib cage twice in succession and then followed with the swing of her left arm; the swing into the uppercut that launched our man or woman (or other gender identity attacker) into the air.

    I bent my knees, touched my fingers to the ground, calculated line and distance, and then let myself go like a coil spring- I pushed myself off the ground.

    Kaylee continued.

    "I''m... not sure I can..." Another wheeze. "Catch them, Marblefox."

    She sounded almost a bit like me, during Nightingale...

    In the air I spun a half-turn to my left, threw my head back and swung my right leg straight and full over the axis in which I was rotating, both backward and in a slight diagonal. Upon completion of the first backward rotation I performed another half-turn into my left but this time with my right fist extended for the punch.

    The punch that hit probably harder than it should have, because I was still shaking out not just my left but also my right hand out after Sam finished the combo with her push kick to hard overhand right. I''d seen it before, because she''d used it in plenty of SRAs.

    She once told me she was half-trained in Muay Thai, and half-trained in "DA STREETS." I said, "Oh, me too!" and then she knocked me out. It was during an SRA. You know- one of the many that I lost.

    She and I had both been hungry and homeless at at least one time or other; it made us friends; we had a lot in common though on the surface level we seemed like two total opposites. It was nice to relate with someone about life on the streets before being politely knocked out by your friend.

    I''d seen her use that maneuver on the streets, too. I saved her with spinning burn-on-impact flips; she saved me with nasty kicks and punches.

    And sometimes drugs.

    "Northeast, possibly toward drug warehouse," I said. Possibly. I had no way to know for sure at the time. I moved toward the unidentified moving shadow I saw earlier, knowing Sam was more than capable of handling a now unarmed- or at least less armed- attacker. I''d get more information or additional possible identifiers later. "Cognito- assist Arrowvine." I walkovered in combination forward toward my target. "Powergrip." I took a pen light from Caleb''s jacket. "Remain with previous directive- I need you here."

    "Roger that, Marblefox." I heard his heavy steps- Wyatt was on the way up. "It''ll only take a moment."

    UGH.

    I DO NOT LIKE THAT GUY.

    Like seriously I GET that we needed him to break the thingy but he was USELESS on this HE COULD HAVE GONE HOME-

    But whatever.

    POWERGRIP IS LITERALLY LIKE THE *DUMBEST* POSSIBLE CODE NAME THAT HAS JUST LIKE *EVER EVEN EXISTED* Uggggggggggggh

    Ugh

    UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!

    But WHATEVER.

    When you''re so miserable you act like a high school bully at THIRTY.

    #NoRelates

    "Tango Mike, Powergrip." I flipped on the switch.

    And then almost, just almost, wished I hadn''t.

    On the floor, in front of me, was a barely moving, barely breathing body. Tied up.

    Her blond hair disheveled and her blood running from her scalp down into her mouth, and then down again onto her blue laboratory attire now mixed with her saliva and maybe even more blood from her mouth-

    Elyza.

    --ovw--XXVI--ovw--

    I flicked backwards, legs over head and hands on the marble floor and back again, several times into a layout flip that spun directly into the restrained attacker''s chest, slamming them onto the floor. Wyatt emerged from the end of the hallway, his arrival physically announced by the light of the torch he carried.

    "Thanks for the light source," said Sam as she folded her hands together, outward, and in front of me. "Needed one for sure."

    I threw a gainer off her hands with my left leg, the right side of my body pulling back for a simple half twist after the calculated arcs of both my legs, and then spun into a double forward rotation before both my shoes connected, hard, directly on top of the masked attacker''s upper body.

    For a fleeting moment Wyatt and Sam both shielded their faces; the force of the stuck landing radiated in visible shockwaves that pushed the air back, hard. It kept our suspect in place long after I stepped off.

    Wyatt winced.

    "Hope you didn''t make it too bad," he commented.

    "No," I said, after nodding my thank-you to Sam, who was looking at me as she pinned our suspect down with one knee. I continued after a sigh. "I barely did anything, really."

    "No burning?" said Sam.

    "Minimal." I turned the other way and sprinted.

    I heard Wyatt laugh raucously.

    "That''s what you call what you did to me," he called out after me. "And that hurt."

    "Feel bad for them after you see Elsie," I said mostly to myself, not caring if they heard me or not. "Elsie, can you hear me?"

    Sam''s voice resonated, wavering and shrill from behind me, from across the hall and antechamber.

    "What?" she said. "Elyza?"

    "Elyza Cobb?" Wyatt''s voice.

    "Stay there with the suspect," I said.

    "Chris," said Wyatt. "What the heck is going on?"

    I said nothing.

    The pen light revealed, on the ground beside Elyza, a tiny orange cartridge with a miniature syringe built into it.

    I thought I knew what it was, but I needed to be sure...

    I reached over, put one finger against the tip of the hypodermic needle, and instantly pulled back.

    Zapryekavil.

    Compassion, not fearlessness or heroism, moved the muscles in my body.

    I knelt down, and slowly placed a hand on Elyza''s face.

    Zapryekavil, or "bloodkill" as I called it, was a product of the Union of Stars. I had seen it only once before. In only one place, at only one time. Nightingale.

    That''s when I felt it- the same ghastly, abhorrent feeling that I still saw in nightmares and cried awake from.

    It was, as I''d overheard from the torturers, intended to wipe memories or manipulate them. If you were a telepath or someone with abilities- not all abilities, just certain ones- or someone with any amount if Vystir in your system, this chemical would not only wipe your mind; it would shut you down, possibly disable your powers for an indefinite amount of time, and above all, hurt.

    Within seconds of contact with her skin, she mumbled what sounded like a "thank you," and I felt a fire in my insides, a charring, a smoke that felt like my head and my veins were being filled with poisonous air that wanted to explode- to escape and release itself- but simply couldn''t; simply wouldn''t be allowed to.

    Another thing I learned from Nightingale: If it hurt you a lot, it usually meant that it wasn''t going to work on you, wasn''t going to make your mind or memories vulnerable to manipulating. Couldn''t make you susceptible. I know, because it didn''t work on me or on Kaylee; the chemical and its pain killed others, but not us.

    That didn''t mean I felt no pain. The orange in the dim light- the orange color of the cartridge- was gone and replaced with gray before I knew what I was feeling.

    I shut my eyes.

    "Sam!" I called out, my voice shaking, its mellow "default" tone a much breathier and much higher pitched sound than it was already- "Stay there. Wyatt, get over here, now!"

    Time made no sense at all, as I heard his heavy footsteps. Each one felt like an eternity. An age.

    "I''m here, Chris." The voice swirled amongst the images; the brutality and all its magnitude. No longer only an image now- a reality brought all the way back by whoever evil decided the way to live was this. Wyatt''s voice, strangely, was the only distraction; it was welcome. But he had to repeat himself. "Chris. I''m here."

    "Knock her out," I said, my eyes still shut.

    He put a hand on my shoulder.

    "Chris-" he started.

    "Just knock her out, trust me." I resisted the urge to pull my hand from her skin, disconnect entirely. It was the pain; it also wasn''t the pain.

    It was the memories.

    I didn''t want to cry in front of Wyatt, who once gripped me by the arms and shoulders and took my lunch money, eons ago- but it was too late. "Do it, Mr. Shafer."

    I heard the strange, sickening sound of one of his netherworldly tentacles emerging and surfacing from his back- one of the sounds I learned to hate- and then a wet, sticky impact that disrupted my painsteal connection.

    I opened my eyes, and the very first detail I noticed in the light of Wyatt''s torch was the rope wrapped around Elyza''s body- the rope used to tie her up. And then I realized why my brain picked up and noticed this particular item.

    "Hey. You okay?" Wyatt knelt down, next to me. I think maybe he put an arm around my shoulders, but I didn''t notice. "You''re all right now. Talk to me."

    It wasn''t rope-

    It was vine. Vine. With thorns. And as far as I knew, there was only one individual who knew Elyza Cobb that had any kind of ability to tie someone up with thorns and make them bleed.

    Klein.

    It''s such a shame

    You never told me what you really wanted

    Go put the blame on me

    Smoke of a fire we''ll never see

    Saying that you got a soul

    Just because you know that you are going to hell

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    Said I don''t want to be near you

    --ovw--XXVII--ovw--

    Nightingale

    Day #41

    Subprocedure Nine

    Can''t give what you don''t have.

    Avyeena Paleros was someone everyone described as a faker. She had, quite possibly, the most square and simultaneously also rectangular face imaginable.

    I stood two feet from her as we all focused our attention on the task in front of us.

    All of us except her perhaps.

    Technically a grade above me in school, I saw her in three of my classes- history, math, advanced reading. I didn''t know why she was there.

    "I swear, I''m losing my shit!" Avyeena screeched in my left ear.

    I said nothing. My eyes fixed on the strange, alabaster shape that calmly floated on the display in front of me: a screen, not unlike the ones at school that I used whenever I borrowed a book for the weekend. Only this one didn''t have catalogs or rows and columns of pieces written by rich people from millennia ago. This one gave you one-hundred and eighty seconds to watch whatever it wanted to show you and then decide whichever word or sentence or number or shape was the correct item after. Whichever "corresponded," as was said by the man who herded us into this room.

    But I knew better.

    There were five of us in the room. Well, five initially. I quickly glanced over at the murky pool of blood on the floor to my right before sliding my finger fast around the edges of the unique polygon shape on my screen; my other finger quickly tapping and moving inwards, to the center of the shape.

    I saw, immediately, how it changed from an alabaster-like hue to a very mild almond color- almost an indistinguishable shift.

    I lifted my finger from the screen, I froze, half-expecting anything from the walls crushing us to slow death to a knife blade previously buried in burning coal

    To this day, that test still confuses me. Sometimes. This is not something I will be happy to remember. It was a test of identifying differences and deviations; it was a test of identifying those who are potentially dangerous; of knowing what to run away from. It was a test of knowing criminals.

    And I knew those people.

    I shut my eyes for just a split second.

    The songs in my head are the only things that will help me...

    A few days before this torture, the man in the crimson helmet took my pen and notebook- the pen and notebook that I stole from one of their offices. The two objects that were my only source of non-torture. Because I can swear to you that every single other thing in that place WAS nothing but torture. He looked at the notes, poems, and songs, and stories for only a few seconds before he tore every page in front of me.

    Don''t try to guess how he punished me after that.

    Beams of light

    Beams of light here are a curse

    Beams of light here are a bad thing

    The men and women running the show knew I''d help people; give answers. I think they noticed that I''d previously assisted others, thereby keeping them alive, when had it been just for the experiment and not me they''d have been eliminated and then disposed. Unless their bodies had cells or relevant DNA or genes or superpowers that they wanted to look at.

    Unless their bodies were a useful tool.

    And so, I was the only one in the room who was gagged.

    They already zapped me twice for trying to give clues with the gag on. The tremors in my hand were manageable, but just barely.

    Avyeena let out a horribly staged laugh, and then an even worse and even more unconvincing laugh, and then she spoke again.

    "Just kidding, y''all!" she said with her pitifully stilted smile, one I had seen before.

    Even Avyeena''s "y''all" wasn''t convincing. She never said "y''all."

    She must have been in a lot of stress.

    "Damn! This is so easy."

    She sounded like she was at an audition for a school play and was simply forced to be there.

    She sounded like this all the time. It was irritating to almost everyone- almost everyone because to me it was, perhaps, neither worth the irritation nor attention.

    I glanced at her quickly and then down at her screen, in an attempt to at least communicate that she needed to have her cognitive functions on the more important task, and not scattered with her perfectly unsolicited and pointless comments.

    No beams of light

    Please please

    No beams of light please

    I remember a teacher once asking her and I to partner for an assignment in which we read verses of the Bible to the class, taking turns, and then entire chapters alternately. I had already done this assignment alone. Upon asking our teacher afterwards why I had to do it again AND WITH HER OF ALL PEOPLE, she replied, "Because the class wouldn''t be able to stand her voice for five minutes." She smiled at me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Let alone ten. We needed yours."

    I gave Avyeena another moment''s glance. I thought about what the teacher said.

    At this point, I think I finally had to agree.

    I thought I heard a clicking noise but ignored it; another set of instructions flashed at me on the holographic projector and I needed to read and understand.

    Quickly.

    Honestly why does she sound like that-

    It sounded like a microwave oven in a massive opera theater exploded.

    INTO A MICROPHONE.

    Both her, and the blast.

    It was a blinding flash of white.

    Glass above us- what used to be the ceiling of the room- shattered into thousands of tiny yellow-and-pink crystal shards and flying orange sparks. I shielded my eyes for an instant, before realizing THE BREAKING GLASS ITSELF WAS A TRICK.

    You needed both your hands on the screen with your mind still counting, keeping records, NOTING PATTERN CHANGES, and remembering whatever followed them.

    In spite of all this chaos.

    In spite of the micro-razor crystal shards that buried themselves into my forehead, in spite of the red liquid that, consequently, began to run into my eyes.

    But my vision wasn''t the only thing that turned red.

    --ovw--

    Only the flashing red light from Avyeena Paleros''s screen illuminated the look on her face- one of realizing the same thing I did, but only when it was too late.

    I assume now she must have shielded her eyes from the tiny shards for one second too long. Her hands, which were a pale shade of blue, were still ON THEIR WAY BACK TO THE HOLOGRAPHIC PROJECTOR SCREEN when it blinked red, one more time.

    The last time.

    I am not going to look

    I am not going to look

    I am not going to l-

    I looked. And I watched as her entire scalp started spraying blood from every single follicle- like hundreds of tiny, microscopic little water sprinklers in a garden of bottle blond, her hair and skin slowly burning itself like aviation gasoline into her skull. Imagine a thin layer of cheese melted or baked slowly into the top of a bread bun or dinner roll. Or a layer of caramel. That''s what her entire head- including her face- looked like, deflating like a red, red, red balloon of human flesh.

    I felt the one slice of bread they allowed me to have the day before push back upwards, threatening to enter my mouth from inside of me.

    I can''t even look at you right now

    Nope can''t look nope

    I''m sorry Avyeena

    Nope

    Not looking at you

    No beams of light. Please.

    Please

    I closed my eyes. Then I looked at her one more time.

    WHY DID I LOOK AT HER

    I didn''t know her. Or I barely did, if at all. But I couldn''t help her. I wanted to, but I needed to keep BOTH HANDS ON THE SCREEN.

    Both hands on the screen

    No beams of light

    No please-

    She seemed completely unable to move, frozen, save perhaps for a very, very mild twitching of her right leg and foot that only someone like me would notice, probably. An almost unnoticeable shaft of light surrounded her area of the room from ceiling to floor.

    No

    The beams of light here...

    NO

    She was done.

    Apart from her scream, the only other sound I seem to remember is that of her retinas slowly breaking; coming apart; detaching- a sound that I wasn''t sure how I was even hearing- one small tissue at a time, and then popping, from inside of her skull, behind her eyes; her eyes which then dropped onto the floor.

    Then I realized it wasn''t the sound of retinas detaching that I was hearing. Or at least, not just that. The circle of subtle yellow light that radiated floor-to-ceiling around her was pulling apart every cell on the surface of her body.

    Slowly.

    Only the songs in your head will help you right now...

    Think of an already-broken egg toppling from the middle of a very large bookshelf. That was the first eye.

    Only the songs in your head will help you right now

    Happy place

    I don''t remember the second eye anymore. But I know nothing rolled when it hit the ground.

    Happy place

    I realize now that that was the only time I ever heard her scream, truly scream, despite all the noise that I and many others had already heard from her in school before.

    I''m sorry Avyeena

    That scream was the most real sound she ever made.

    --ovw--

    I stood there, in the circular room- or was it octagonal? And breathed, my eyes glued to the screen and waiting for a next instruction, another puzzle, another subtle string of lines to read upwards and sideways and forth and back.

    I still heard Avyeena''s insides bubbling on the floor to my left. Whatever was her brain was now identical to whatever mess was around her intact pelvis. Well, maybe not intact. The dent in it was probably not unlike the one in the metacarpal in my left hand...

    Her scream lasted longer than any scream I had made in my nightmares. Or so it seemed to me. Her eyes, shortly before dropping, had slowly moved to look at me.

    But there was nothing I could say or do.

    Scalp to neck, hands to rib cage, feet up to her stomach, I watched her turn from one you saw at school that people all hated but couldn''t avoid, to a human pork roast on a barbecue. Only I felt nothing still.

    I wasn''t thinking about how many new versions of bad dreams I was going to go home with; I was thinking of survival- because if I wasn''t going to survive, then how would I help anybody, save anybody?

    An almost familiar face lit up the blank screen. Almost familiar, because there was no face. Just the mask, red hair and stubble.

    "As much gymnastics as your body does, it doesn''t stop there, does it?" The man said. And then he uttered a slightly muffled laugh which lasted thirty seconds, which made absolutely no sense to me. He continued. "The mental side is no less impressive. See, when I choose someone, I choose only the smartest. Anything you''re capable of physically is only just bonus territory."

    That''s when shapes moved above me. Shadows, I''d guessed, maybe more enormous holding chambers or moving platforms or racks of test tubes- but, like as not, something else.

    "But let''s test that bonus territory," he continued. "If you want to prove you''re useful to us..." I saw him get up and then pick up a sheet of paper on a desk- "in addition to how profitable we already know you can be, then let''s see you in a physically high-stress situation."

    What?

    I wasn''t sure I was hearing him right.

    Physically "high-stress" situation?

    I couldn''t be hearing him right.

    In addition to all this?

    I felt the gag on my mouth- so uncomfortably tight. I probed at it with my fingers but there was nothing to make it come loose. It wasn''t fiber; wasn''t cloth.

    In addition to the glass tiles, the poisons, the injections?

    I was done for the day. They''d give me my one hour of time to sleep. Before some other kind of forced injection.

    And in addition to the bedroom?

    Well, at least the continued abuse meant, for me, a little more time to sleep on a comfortable bed.

    Sometimes, it was almost a refuge...

    The shadows above me moved down, closer to where I stood.

    Physically high-stress situation.

    No, I heard him right.

    One of these mutated creatures screeched at me- eerily a lot like Avyeena- as I had to dodge sideways and into a roll, fast. I untucked back onto my feet just as quickly and looked up. Projectile echoes and waves of sound you could actually see started coming at me from all sides.

    "We created them five years ago, from wolverines and from bats." The man''s voice was now booming at me from the main audio system that they used for larger gatherings, as well as still coming from the screen behind me. "Impressive, aren''t they?"

    "uAuffhuuh-" I stepped back and flipped backwards as one of these... these things came at me with its black talons pointed toward the side of my neck. "mmFhihuh, mmmuAuff!"

    "Oh, sorry. I forgot they had you gagged."

    The contraption that was holding my medial pterygoid and masseter and temporalis still finally came loose and hit the ground with a loud clack.

    Pattern number one:

    It targeted the side of my neck. I was already bleeding there.

    I picked up what looked like one of my ex-co-test-subject''s femurs and then Avyeena''s right tibia and defended myself from the hordes of monsterbirds.

    "How are you today?" the man said. "How is the experiment?"

    "Are they attracted to blood?!" I said.

    "Wow," the man said. "How''d you know that so fast?"

    I said nothing.

    I ran over to the four pedestals where the displays were- the ones of my now-dead experiment-mates, and started up the test programs, one at a time.

    "What are you-"

    On the first display there were two choices: 1956 and 1911.

    "THEY TOOK HALF THE WORLD. NOT BY STORM. CHAMBERS AND GAS. THIS ANGEL WAS BORN."

    I positioned my feet, calculated the distance and line, and intentionally tapped 1956.

    I lunged and flew forward- into a flip with a full twist and then a half- and then looked up as the shift of light froze these mutated wolverines with wings. I didn''t stop to watch them turn into blood and bones. I''d seen a lot of that, plenty. No thank you.

    I walked, light-footed and swift, across to the next screen.

    1911 was the right answer.

    A man was born that year- a man known for torturing innocent people. Many called him the Angel of Death, something I had also read in a book, at eight years old. His name was Josef Mengele.

    I didn''t know if it was fiction; many parts of the book were faded and I couldn''t read all of it. I remember trying to ask the librarian for a digital copy, but she said she didn''t have one, and told me to read something she called "Twilight."

    Let''s not go there.

    The next pedestal gave the following two choices:

    LRNR and JCSL.

    "YOU HAVE ONE SECOND. IF THE SHAPE YOU SEE BELOW IS NOT A PENTAGON, SELECT THE WOLF."

    The program was pretty generous, because it showed me the old Overwoods flag- the one from eons and ages ago- which, of course, was rectangular and not a pentagon. It was the flag they used before the former country from millennia ago destroyed itself completely. The program also showed the flag on the screen for two whole seconds, which was much longer than I was bracing for or expecting- so that was nice of them.

    I glanced over at the mutated creatures that were caught near the last screen. Frozen in air, slowly burning, strange little wisps of black smoke mixed with red emitting gradually from their giant, brawny, frightening bodies, like slowly evaporating molasses. Their razor-sharp claws detached; fell as a pile of searing, hot metal into the pools of human blood.

    I intentionally tapped "LRNR" and flew in the opposite direction as more flying wolverines attempted to attack me, and subsequently burned.

    Juan Carlos S��nchez Latorre, born September 13, 1980, was a man many called the "Big Bad Wolf." I also learned this from reading. Don''t ask me why they called him that.

    I remember reading on for maybe two more pages, and then crying and having to put the book down, because I had my own wolves. I went back the next day, after spending evening until morning with said wolves, to read the rest of it.

    By this time I had activated all the murder-technology areas except for one- my own- and I had noticed something else.

    Apart from that I was blacking out and that there were now only five of the monsters, another pattern had emerged in all the memories and plasma and bones.

    I just needed to test it.

    "...I''ve been speaking to you, Daniel."

    "Danny."

    "That is a nickname."

    "I don''t know what my real name is. Hate me."

    Silence save for the screeching and my ragged breathing.

    "I can''t hate you. Would you like a real name?"

    This distracted me enough that one of the wolverines had managed to clamp its teeth on my shoulder- very close to the wound in my neck- and I dropped the femur and yelled through gritted teeth and struck with Avyeena''s tibia, again and again and again until it finally let go, and I was then able to damage both of its eyes with my fingers; I wasn''t going to have to kill it. I was on the ground just regrasping the femur when a screech, earsplitting and shrill, came at me from behind.

    I knew instantly there was no maneuver that would move me out of its way entirely. I used my arms and elbows to cover my head and crossed the bones in an X behind my neck and back.

    Both bones broke, into pieces that flew like marrow-filled, blood-coated pieces of striated confetti on both my sides as they absorbed, thankfully, most of the frightening and eerie impact. Here I was unarmed with possibly a spine injury and fingers that I couldn''t move.

    I used what seemed like the last of my strength to push up into at least a crouch, using my elbows and arms mostly since my hands weren''t cooperating. But I still needed to test the theory.

    It was like when your leg fell asleep in a bad position for so long that you had to cry- that''s what my hands were like. The parts of me that could ignore it did while the rest of me suffered. Suffered as I sidestepped a visible wave of shock and sound that blew up yet another part of the tile floor beneath me, but didn''t bounce off.

    Pattern #2:

    These waves bounce off walls, but don''t move upward.

    I didn''t need my hands this time.

    "Do I go up from here? Or do I eliminate these targets?" My voice was my voice, yet it was so detached from me. Like an AI robot machine or whatever they called it had my voice installed on it. "Tell me what to do. Please. I''m so tired."

    "You didn''t like any of the names?"

    "They were all great. I just didn''t hear any of them." Four more of these monsters and this may have been it, may have been the match that was going to stab me in the throat, choke me; penetrate me through the heart, with its claws or fangs or talons. "You''ll either tell me what to do here or I''ll die. I''m not sure it matters."

    I dodged another attack, another screech, another bite. It almost wasn''t different; different from the time I was on the floor and crying from the pain, in the sense that I was there, but I wasn''t there. I was a corpse that moved. All of the rest of me had already died. Whatever remained hoped only for safety; wanted almost nothing else.

    "I just wanted some action."

    I used my right hand, which was less damaged, to pick up a bone. I''d been victim to sick people like this; it wasn''t new. But it always took a lot from you and gave little in return. "You like a lot of action, I get that." I glanced up at one of the cameras. "If I die here you won''t get any. Do I kill these-" I quickly flipped backwards to dodge the wolverine that was swooping in toward me with its fangs bared; I rebounded into a double backwards tuck for extra distance- "or is there some platform up there that I can reach for safety?" I paused to catch my breath, which at that time felt like an almost impossible task- either the air was empty of any oxygen or the hard blow to the back of my head was playing tricks on me- "I know the screech-projectile-echoes don''t move up."

    A door panel hidden in the wall, one like many others here, unlocked itself with a subtle emission of cold air and vapor and smoke. Tranquilizer darts from above shot at the remaining mutation-creatures, and I watched them flop onto the ground, which was still slick with intestines, eyeballs, and hemoglobin. It looked almost graffitied in some places- the places where I was and struggled and flipped and my shoes drew lines in the blood. I smelled like I vomited liquor on myself- a smell I knew only from knowing other people who were alcohol-addicted, and having to be physically very close with them- in addition to smelling like I swam in a soup of dead, boiled human bodies. Which might or might not have been, actually, the accurate statement.

    "I like how you always fold the sheets in the morning."

    I turned around and there he was, the man in the mask.

    "What do I do now?" I said.

    "Nothing tonight." He scratched a stopwatch on his suit. "You''ve proven your survivability for the day."

    For the day.

    "What should I expect tomorrow?" I said it politely. I didn''t like him when he was mad. His emotion in itself didn''t bother me. But he knew how to hurt you. And if he was mad, he would hurt you. "Apart from the injections."

    He didn''t answer my question.

    "You let tomorrow take care of itself," he said in a warm, obliging voice that severely contrasted to the violence all around us. I was in a slaughterhouse, of humans, of children, and here was a man who drank wine from expensive glasses on tables of diamond. "What would you like tonight?"

    "I''d like my own blanket."

    --ovw--XXVIII--ovw--

    Was it because I was sleepless, or was it because I didn''t catch whoever was responsible?

    I remember trying not to think of Marie. I remember trying not to think about bloodkill.

    Nightingale in general was always going to be there. What was in front of me was not a new story in the Overwoods. I didn''t claim to be strong; only that I did what I could to protect the good, in any and all its forms.

    I wondered, with Liquid Nitrogen''s blood on the soles of my inexpensive sneakers, If Avyeena had lived, would she have just killed herself? It was my best attempt at introducing a new thought into my own mind. How would Kayles have felt, had she been the sole survivor?

    I should have answered wrong.

    "You''re starving."

    I looked up, from the green sheets with red notebooks on them where I wrote everything.

    "Just one bite. It''s still hot."

    If I said that when people were kind to me or cared, I always believed it, that would be a lie. If I said I always thought that kindness, if directed toward me, was heartfelt and not a manipulation tool to eventually use me and completely contriturate my psyche because there is evil out there, that would be something else; "lie" could not be strong enough.

    At that particular moment it was as though I wasn''t hearing Malcolm''s voice. I just heard some sort of deep, disembodied grumble as my thoughts again turned to Crayon and Skittles.

    I had to be polite, kind, because karma.

    I smiled.

    "I''m not hungry," I said.

    Malcolm crossed the room and replaced a fifth plate of whatever-it-was on my only clear surface: a small plastic table I won in third grade for something I wrote. I had to fly in and out of the Lowdown at 2AM to retrieve it and one of my stuffed animals, Penguinowo. Malcolm stood still after putting it down and taking the last plate.

    I was older. But I still froze, still stayed hypervigilant, still breathed a little less whenever anyone even slightly larger than I was alone in the same room as me. Especially if there was a bed.

    "I ain''t a telepath from the Suburbs," Malcolm growled, "but even I know you''re lying." I heard his significantly louder sigh of why-do-I-bother and even felt it on my face. "I haven''t seen you go anywhere, eat anything. I thought I was worth more than ''I''m not hungry.''"

    Part of me wanted to say something, but I didn''t.

    Right before the door shut, he said, "I guess not."

    --ovw--

    I flipped open the new keypad-type phone I was using temporarily, one Kaylee gave me when I wasn''t sure I was cognitively able to handle anyone else.

    "BELINDA IS GOING IN FOR INTERROGATION."

    I was still wiping my eyes when I read her new message.

    "6AM TOMORROW."

    Interrogate Belinda Klein? Call me what you would. Wyatt had little to no chance of going that deep. Some telepaths were a bit easier to read- exempli gratia myself, most of the time anyway- and some were more like Belinda. Awkwardly, and with my left hand virtually convulsing, I typed in my reply.

    "CAN WYATT EVEN CRACK HER CODE?" I said.

    "I''M SURE HE''LL DO FINE."

    "ARE YOU?"

    "HOW MANY INTERROGATIONS WENT THE OTHER WAY FOR HIM BEFORE?"

    I had to take a moment.

    "FOUR."

    To the best of my knowledge, at least.

    I shifted from my half-curled-up position facing the wall to flat on my back to stare at the photographs I stuck on to the ceiling. On the left, suspects I''d apprehended and stopped. On the right, those we either needed to investigate further, or otherwise just arrest entirely.

    Often the people I still had locate and arrest looked a certain way. They looked like murderers.

    "Four," I repeated to Kayles, letting down my telepathic barrier for the moment. "That I know of. Only, really, because I was asked to speak to the suspects after he failed."

    Kaylee''s telepathic voice responded. I closed my eyes.

    "He''s interrogated lots of people, Chris."

    "Yeah," I replied. "Me included."

    "What?"

    "Nothing," I said. "Let''s move on."

    Caleb was able to track Belinda Klein''s location not by use of any fanciful electronics or gadgets she owned, but because, apparently, Caleb had already placed a tracking device on one of her pairs of glasses- one small enough to go unnoticed. She''d boarded a U.S. flight to the mainland before Sam intercepted. Now Sam''s just as injured as Elyza.

    My eyes flew open at the memory of seeing bloodkill; the memory of realizing exactly what pain Elyza Cobb was put through, when I saw her, when I understood what chemical was forced into her blood. For Elyza''s sake, I hope she doesn''t remember the pain; I hope all she remembers is how I took the horrible monster from her body. The one that makes you cry, and beg. This way, only Kaylee and I will know the nightmares.

    Who gave Belinda the Zapryekavil?

    "Do you have any idea why she did it?" I said.

    "We don''t know she did it," replied Kaylee.

    "You think there''s anyone else in the Overwoods with Belinda Klein''s abilities?"

    "Experimentations still happen, Chris. New powers could come up at any time." Kaylee paused. "Well, I guess a lot more dead bodies than actual new powers but, we don''t know."

    "Midnight," intruded Sam.

    I quickly skimmed over the photographs, facial composites; settled on Torres. Did he know anything?

    "Yes, Sam. Hi."

    "Hi!" squealed Kaylee.

    "Tell that bitch we need a rematch," Sam hissed. "And this time, I''m throwing her off the plane."

    "Unless her prison''s going to be on a moving airplane," I said, "that''s not going to happen."

    "Fine, tell her she''s going to get private conjugal visits." Sam popped her telepathic bubble gum. "From me, up close."

    "I''ll tell her you wanna get high with her," I said. "How''s that?"

    "Deal."

    Sam vamoosed from the connection. Even in telepathy, she dropped half her R''s. The other half turned into Y''s. To me her voice was almost always very entertaining.

    "You''re in trouble with James," said Kaylee.

    "He can suck a jellyfish," I said. "The poisonous type."

    "Naw," said Kaylee. "You don''t mean that!"

    "Man has no idea what he''s doing." I focused on the butterfly on Torres''s face. "Neither do I, frankly. But sometimes I don''t know why I take orders from that dude."

    Kaylee laughed.

    "You called him ''dude.''"

    "I don''t want to be respectful right now."

    "That''s not disrespectful."

    "If the Overwoods blows up, again, like it did thousands of years ago, it''s his fault."

    Kaylee paused.

    "He cares about you," she said. "You know. In his own way."

    "It''s a twisted way."

    "Would you rather he didn''t care at all?"

    The butterfly''s right wing was slightly smaller than the left. It might have just been my mental state, but I felt like I had almost seen Reynaldo Torres somewhere before...

    "No," I replied. "I appreciate it. I just... wish things were easier."

    There was a knock on the door. I immediately dropped the connection.

    "I''ll eat, Malcolm!" I yelled. "We''re good!"

    I struggled to get up to some sort of sitting position, knocking two of my notebooks off the side of the bed. I was just happy to be seeing the color red on their covers again. The door swung open before I could pick them up.

    "You have a visitor."

    I folded the notebooks shut, after flipping through a few pages. I pressed my fingertips to my eyebrows for a minute.

    "Are you gonna say anything?" Malcolm pressed.

    I bit my tongue.

    Am I permitted to not say anything?

    I fumbled with the edges of the light cotton bandage I still kept wrapped around my left hand. Tested it, slowly moving one finger at a time, from the shortest one to the longest.

    I inhaled, very slowly, and took twice as long for the exhale that followed it.

    "I told Caleb not to visit me."

    Malcolm put down an oatmeal bar- in blue wrapping- on the floor next to Penguinowo, who was sitting by the door.

    Good. Penguinowo was hungry.

    Pain clutched at my stomach. It was probably just the poison spray from the canister, and all of the injections from the senseless human experimentation and torture they forced onto us, from when-

    "Eat something," said a familiar voice as it broke through my thoughts like a battering ram, "or I will tie you to a tree and make you smell mutant gardenia-citrus-corpse flower hybrids."

    I pinched my lips together. Kaylee''s telepathic voice, but a slightly softer version of it. It reminded me of me. My mouth remained shut as I looked at Malcolm. I spoke again, but this time via telepathy.

    "The blue ones or the pink ones?" I said.

    "The orange ones," said Kaylee.

    "OH MY GOD," retorted Sam with very palpable, unmistakable revulsion in her only slightly less Four-accented telepathic voice. "Those are SO REVOLTING-"

    I put my telepathic barrier back up.

    I took another very slow breath, wiped off any water that might still be on my cheeks because sometimes I cry, and moved my fingers around just as Malcolm spoke again.

    "It''s not your boyfriend," he said. "It''s your boss."

    --ovw--XXIX--ovw--

    James led the way to the nearby beaches where I sometimes still tumbled. I followed while eating the still-hot French toast Malcolm made for me, with his own heat and fire, prepared outside the small two-story house.

    "Tell me, Midnight," said James, "what part of You take the hotel on Monday did you not understand?"

    "I understood the sentence."

    "So you intentionally went against my authority."

    "Do you or do you not realize that had I not been there, Cobb would be dead right now?"

    This made him hang back.

    I kicked a broken shell off the road and back into the sand. I kicked off my sandals, too, and walked into two front handspring stepouts- one-handed because of the toast- sitting myself down on the sand as landing for the second one while still eating Malcolm''s fancy and yummy and happy bread.

    Still no response from James. I looked over my shoulder. He wasn''t looking at me.

    "Ih wath the righ choith," I said before swallowing the mouthful of toasted, buttery happiness. "It was the right choice and you know it." I paused. "It was the only thing to do. Anything else would''ve been disaster. And because of you, too."

    He was my boss, but just for that one moment, I wasn''t going to sugar coat. Someone could have been murdered- and to me, it wasn''t just anyone, either.

    My gaze went back to the 5PM horizon, the sky with all its smeared-around combinations of orange and red, mostly a translucent color that made me think of pink lemonade maybe mixed with strawberry juice. The sun was unobscured and glowed just as mellowly, just like it did, back when I kept hermit crabs from here as pets- before letting them free again, back here, after a day. I was younger and really wanted pets. I wasn''t allowed any, was told I couldn''t "afford" them; I didn''t know what money moved in or out at that time. I returned the little things because I didn''t want them around the air of drugs or prostitution. They deserved better.

    I looked at my hands. I''d forgotten to wrap the left one, but any pain was unnoticeable because of the waves and the sky and the ocean air around us. It made the humidity- typical it being the Overwoods- not only bearable, but almost welcome.

    James still didn''t say anything. Red flag, very unusual. James didn''t not talk. I considered flying away, perhaps off to some other, less beautiful or accommodating part of The Port where someone the likes of James would never set foot. Maybe to the Bay of Bodies; maybe to McKinley War Memorial. Or somewhere else. There was no end of hiding places, now; now that I was the survivor that was forcefully made of me.

    But not the Lowdown.

    Never the Lowdown...

    I glanced at the strange, slow, orange-with-purple-clouds Overwoods summer sunset; I remembered Marie. Summers here that rained and snowed with typhoons or hurricanes or every other catastrophe you could possibly think of. The boys and girls- the children- that have never and will never recover from the tortures.

    But Kaylee and I are damaged forever.

    While the ones who ran the experiment are probably out drunk and partying.

    I am so hungry...

    But at least his hunger was my choice. I was empowered; it was MY doing; MY self-inflicted pain- no one was doing that to me but me and thus it made me feel some small sense of autonomy; some small sense of control. Who cared if it hurt, right? At least I had a choice for once.

    For freaking ONCE.

    So I didn''t care that it hurt; that I felt there were two slices of bread and a pool of toxic acid with poison-canister-spray in my esophagus and stomach.

    But I''m still hungry...

    I was already calculating line and distance and where exactly to place my feet when he spoke again.

    "That''s why I''m here."

    "Because Elyza would be dead right now if not for what I decided, and the rest of the gang? My friends who you call drug addicts? Which, by the way, makes zero sense coming from you. Are you here to stare at the beach with me?" I moved, getting up from where I was and walked north, toward a rock. "Because bye."

    A frayed, old piece of rope hanging from a boardwalk railing started flying towards me.

    I flipped backward in layout and out of its way, no hands this time and no twisting as I was now a bit more cognizant of the pain in my hand. Sometimes, I wondered if the contraption from Nightingale was still on it. Just maybe invisible, or something.

    James''s voice was undeniably one of anger.

    "You will stay here," he said, in a very uncharacteristic bark that only reprimanded me further, "Or you''ll find some other federal agency to work for!"

    I froze. But only for a moment before I responded with, "Maybe I should."

    At that moment a squirrel with a red coat of fur- the same one I had seen in the school- materialized from under a toppled-over recycle bin. It scurried over and stood on its hind legs in front of me.

    I gave it the rest of my French toast.

    Marie''s dead. Hundreds of other kids are dead; maybe even thousands.

    I didn''t deserve food anyway.

    I saved Elyza''s LIFE, and here I am- getting my butt CHEWED OUT for it.

    Maybe that guy or gal (or otherwise other gender identity individual- I didn''t know the pronoun) was right-

    NOTHING I do is right...

    "No matter who I protect or what I do for you, you''re unhappy," I continued. "To me right now, you''re practically mad Elyza''s alive. Half the stuff you make me do doesn''t even make sense."

    Something tugged tightly around my right wrist and pulled me straight down into the sand. Without glancing over I knew James had kept me in place.

    I pretended I wasn''t scared.

    "Lecture me now if you want to so badly," I said, "or fire me. I''m not sure it matters anyway."

    I wiped water off my left cheek.

    "I get it," I whispered. "I get it. Nothing I ever do is right."

    Maybe Elyza will do something right. Maybe, maybe that will count as something, because I saved her.

    I felt the rope loosen, but only so slightly. I was still stuck here.

    James was smiling some sort of smile, which was more of the norm. The words he spoke next exhibited a tonality to his voice that I didn''t hear very often- but it was one that made me believe him.

    "I came here to say thank you."

    The rope came off. I dusted off my pants and walked to where the torn brown sandals were laying in the sand. They were too huge for me but I liked them because they were Malcolm''s. He let me use them on Sundays. There were a few acorns in one of them- the squirrel must have left them there- and I shook them off onto the sand.

    Why on earth would the squirrel leave that there-

    My fingers fumbled at the hem of the shirt I was wearing. It was a gift from Sam- a small black T-shirt with the picture of a cartoon Pembroke Welsh corgi puppy and the words "i''m a corgi" all in lowercase below the printed graphic; she heat pressed the shirt herself in her home in V4.

    Squirrels were strange in the Overwoods- like almost all other things in the Overwoods, they made little to no sense to me. But at least they were cute; at least they were mostly harmless; at least they weren''t broken human child traffickers- leaders of mass abuse, evil in walking form and seemingly human.

    Yeah you know squirrels be cute like that

    Nice train of thought, right?

    But the squirrels deserve better than to live HERE...

    That they did. So did 6 out of 10 people. Or at least that was my thought at the time.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Did you hear what I just said to you?" said James.

    I looked at him. Carrot hair; pistachio-ice-cream eyes; dark circles prominent under the glasses. My first instinct was to say thank you back- but something just felt wrong; I wasn''t sure what. Maybe it was that he was thanking me for saving one life when I watched dozens of kids die in front of me at age eleven; maybe it was that the mess would not have happened at all if not for me. Consider that I''d already hopped off of Century Spire''s roof to die and apparently I didn''t even do THAT right.

    I stared at the ground; at broken little shells on the sand. Most of them where dull gray. Some were bright orange. A hermit crab danced on top of a broken wine bottle.

    Even small things like broken wine bottles reminded me of Nightingale.

    Cute little hermit crab.

    Focus on cute dancing hermit crab.

    The cute dancing hermit crab climbed off of the broken wine bottle and crawled into a small hole in the sand.

    I was the one who needed a hole in the sand to bury myself in- or at the very least a shell to go back into and hide in.

    Dancing hermit crab is lucky.

    "So, I don''t deserve a reply, I guess." James put his glasses in his shirt pocket. You know- the fancy expensive shirt with the collar and the pocket. "I came out here just to thank you," he said, "and all that your eighteen-year-old mind is thinking about... is a crab."

    That was oversimplification.

    "It is an oversimplification," he said. "But you get my point."

    Uhm like no I don''t.

    Nice of him to assume I understood the point, though.

    "At least talk to me if you won''t talk to Malcolm."

    WHAT?

    WHAT IS THE-

    THERE WAS NO COMPARISON.

    Just say something and maybe he''ll finally leave you alone.

    "I''m not sure if you''re welcome," I said.

    --ovw--XXX--ovw--

    I was still occasionally coughing from the lingering effects of whatever spray was in that canister thingy.

    I refused to show up at the interrogation. I wanted no part of it.

    Tiana Ambervi waved at me, from across the road, her glasses gleaming back the gray silver of the Overwoods sun on an overcast Monday morning. It smelled like chopped wood and the mines- one of the many indicators that I was now walking even farther away from the Bay area, and towards Vicinity Four. Like rocks broken open and like the murders of lives that harmed no one. My phone buzzed for a fourth time and I ignored it.

    Tiana had eyes seemingly gray, like the "wolf-in-winter" painting I made together with Caleb for his school project years ago. I was no painter. He was. But he needed my concepts.

    I needed his company.

    "What you doing here?" Tiana said, crossing the street and coming toward me. Her voice and accent both were relatively uncommon in the Overwoods- reminiscent of older Southeast Asian enunciation; tone patterns that were now all but nonexistent. "You need medicine?"

    I probably did. But I didn''t say that.

    Up close her eyes were dark brown; very reflective- almost as shiny as the copper adornments and mineral beads she loved to put on her purple headdress.

    She looked like she was getting married.

    Like, every single day.

    "No," I said. "I, uh. I buy bread here sometimes."

    She frowned at me. Sometimes I just didn''t know what to say. Or I didn''t have anything amazing to say, at least.

    "Yeah. I''m lying," I said.

    Tiana and I ran into each other at school sometimes. Often at the library. Sometimes, we argued about who would take home which book for the night. Of course, if I knew I was "working" that night then I would just let her take whatever she wanted. She would thank me and I''d of course say nothing.

    "White lie," she said. "No matter to me."

    I smiled.

    "Maybe," I said. "How are you, Tiana?"

    I was able to "recruit" her into a technician-type job at the Webwork, she now rented a room away from her home in Vicinity Six for easy access to the building, given how unpredictable weather in the Overwoods was combined with the often precarious journey from V6 to V4. Her sister worked in the mines- like Malcolm- and ultimately was killed because of a fatal exposure to Vystir poisons. She died after a day, despite both their parents owning a small clinic for chemical contamination and drug poisoning in Vicinity Six. Her sister was seventeen.

    "Oh, so happy." She hugged me and somehow I just wasn''t there, so I wasn''t able to really feel it. "So happy to be away from Six."

    That''s right. She told me about what happened one day, to her sister and how she couldn''t stand treating all the drug addicts afterward anymore. So, of course, that night I broke into James''s office top of the Webwork tower above the Coliseum and looked for secret job openings. I got her the spot the next day.

    "Well," I said with some kind of twisted-by-trauma-and-sadness smile, "I helped one person."

    She laughed.

    "You always so humble," she said.

    "Do you know where I can find Ember?" I said.

    "Emberion?" said Tiana. "Myelantic? Why? What you need?"

    "Some kind of painkiller. The nonaddictive kind," I replied. "It''s not for me; it''s for Sam."

    We were somewhere between the center and south of V4. There was loud rustling as a train ran past us on its path in the center of McPhearson Avenue. It caught my attention but I wasn''t sure why. I followed it with my eyes until it was out of sight.

    "Why she need it?" said Tiana. "She not gonna sell that?"

    "No," I said. "It''s for her to take."

    A combustifly landed on my hand to roast the mosquito- a mosquito I didn''t even notice- that was just about to feast on my iron-deficit, low-sugar blood. It was a warm, tickling feeling. And then it flew away to go munch on its new toasted mosquito meal, or to bring it to its combustifly family.

    "Thanks," I said to the combustifly.

    "Why, who she is fight into this time? Her brother?"

    "No, no. You don''t want to know."

    "I do, so I warn other people!"

    "Doesn''t matter," I said. Maybe a bit sharply.

    "And how it not matter, Daniel?"

    "Because Belinda Klein is in jail, and Wyatt and I are possibly, maybe, supposed to be interviewing her?" I said.

    Yeah, except I wasn''t there. Alone in a room with Shafer, and Klein, too? Bad enough, per se.

    But combine that with all that''s happened...

    Another train sped past. Wasn''t it a bit early for a train- now two, at that- to be running through V4 like this?

    "So..." Tiana said, "On the airplane, that was...?"

    "Yes, that was Sam and Belinda." I closed my eyes. "Look, Tiana, can you tell me where Ember is?"

    "Sorry, yes. He in the Thornton building. Beside Douglas. 24th street."

    I checked the time and hence also saw my number of unread notifications. Fourteen.

    "So beside the-"

    "Beside trap house, yes."

    "I was going to say ''pharmacy,'' but sure."

    Tiana spoke her next words with either apparent humor, or apparent sarcasm, maybe both, I couldn''t tell.

    "They miss your business there."

    I gave her a half smile. Mordantly.

    "Right," I said.

    --ovw--

    The four walls were just like I remembered them. Baby blue. The single fixture hanging from the ceiling glowed a dim white which illuminated the small plastic drawers of pills and small bottles of different liquids.

    I sniffed, partly because I was remembering how Crayon and I once ran down a mountainside, and down to a beach, to catch up with Skittles, who decided to make friends with a crab that ended up pinching her paw. I kicked the crab into the water where it probably drowned.

    Do crabs swim?

    ...and partly because of the aftereffects of whatever gas poison it was, I was still feeling it.

    "Do you have anything for..." I had to pause. "I don''t know. Like, tear gas side effects?"

    Emberion puffed his megacigarette smoke- thankfully- away from my face. There was little enough ventilation and what was there was a semi-working exhaust fan in a square hollow drilled through the wall.

    "What''d ya do, fight Krasvya military?" he said.

    "What?"

    "Nothing," he replied. "Whatever the hoe used at ya it was probably made to make you forget, or unconscious. And we all know," he smirked at whatever face I was making, "Zapokavich don''t even work on ya."

    Zapokavich?

    "You mean Zapryekavil?"

    "Yeah that, whateva."

    Bloodkill.

    When you''re one of two survivors from an experiment that took, quite possibly, hundreds of children from across the only island left in the entire continent, people talk about it.

    "Okay, so," I said, still trying to keep my mind clear, "anything you have for it?"

    "You''ll be fine, Danny boy."

    Sheesh. Why I spoke to these people, sometimes, I''ll never know.

    "I have people to arrest, Myelantic."

    Emberion Myelantic: half human, half centaur. I think that made him one-fourth horse. The result of an experiment far different from what I and Kaylee lived through- though he was one of many more survivors.

    I shook the bottle full of green pills in my left hand. Ember wagged his pure white tail, white like the suit he was wearing. He wore a tie that read, "Just For Today." On my left, posted on the wall, was a slogan with "Cocaine is better than megacigarettes!" written on it. This all made perfect sense.

    I sighed.

    "What''s up with all the trains, Ember?"

    He puffed his smoke away from my face.

    "Mines," he said.

    "They need more people?" I asked.

    "Nah," Ember said. "People dead again. More..." he waved his free hand in the air- one of his nervous tells- "...more commotion."

    His megacigarette was the Dark Plum flavor. It to me smelled like a Sharpie dipped in liquid sage, melted, and then puked on. By an alcoholic.

    What wasn''t he telling me?

    "I''ll get you miracle apples from Eight," I said, "If you tell me what exactly you''ve heard."

    Overrated pink fruits that all the centaurs and half-centaurs, which were a small fraction of the population that lived, mostly, in the woods between Vicinity Four and The Port. But not Ember- he needed to do his... transactions.

    His sky blue eyes lit up.

    "Two of ''em?" he said.

    "Five," I said.

    He whinnied, albeit subtly, unable to contain his excitement. Horsefolk didn''t go to Eight- Vicinity Eight was where their crow counterparts, the Talon, nested in their large and overly mutated evergreens, sugar pines, scots pines, red pines, sequoias, the occasional red maple.

    "Just somethin'' I heard."

    "Now," I said. "Before I read your mind and you get no apples."

    He made some kind of centaur-horse sound. Something between a nicker and a squeal.

    "Juz''n drama ''tween the folk and someone being killed, okay?" He lit himself another Dark Plum. "A kidnapping."

    Kidnapping?

    "Elyza''s?" I said, a familiar fear slowly making its way over me.

    "Nah," Ember replid. "A new one."

    A new one.

    IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME...

    I think we did.

    "What else did you hear?" I said.

    "Some sort of struggle- a fire." Fiyah, it sounded like to me, his speech so heavily affected with that archetypal Four accent. "An inferno sumwyeh."

    Sumwyeh was "somewhere" in Four accent.

    ...I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    I checked my phone.

    Fourteen notifications...

    "James wants to talk to you."

    Gross.

    "Awesome win at the SRA! Come have a drink with us, Midnight! Pacifico next weekend? Show us a signature cartwheel or whatever! How''s that sound, buddy?"

    Um, yeah, no.

    "Do a front flip!"

    With a full or without a full? Doesn''t matter, no.

    "Ur hot giv me sum brain"

    What does that even mean?

    "Blow me or I will hack your girlfriend''s social media and all of your BirdCoin. And your social media."

    No.

    I wasn''t even on any social media, this was pathetic. I was literally gay, still am. What''s BirdCoin?

    "U SUCK AT LEAGUE PLAY A SUPPORT NEXT TIME"

    I did play a support, I only ever played supports, what an idiot-

    I scrolled to the bottom. One message from Caleb.

    "Danny, call me. Right now."

    Twenty-five minutes ago.

    ...DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.

    I became aware of the water in my eyes. There was... no way, was there?

    And the mines?

    Malcolm wasn''t supposed to be back there this soon, was he?

    A new message buzzed in.

    "Monday

    7:34 AM

    Sent via SecureWeb

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN

    Reply Forward Delete"

 the overwoods - full book pt 3

    --ovw--XXXI--ovw--

    "Monday

    7:34 AM

    Sent via SecureWeb

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN

    Reply Forward Delete"

    MONDAY

    7:35 AM

    Thornton Building

    Almost obvious no-brainer: Delete.

    But I refrained from tapping the delete button. Caleb might use this. I now had to decide whether to contact Wyatt first, to ask if Belinda knew anything about whatever was going on in the mines, or Kaylee.

    Calling Caleb was out of the question. If he was wherever the assault was taking place, contacting him would further spur the assailant. One thing you learned working for the US: you gave information only to those on your side, only to those that deserved it.

    I politely held a hand up to indicate to Ember that I needed a minute.

    "Kayles," I said, telepathically.

    "Yes?" she said.

    "Where are you?" I said.

    "Pacifico." Her mood changed from a forest green to an amber-red shade of alarm. "Chris. What''s going on?"

    "How many people did you say you spotted?" I said. "Back at the hotel?"

    "One tripped the stringweed," she replied. "Four people. Medium height, average builds. One taller. One had wings."

    "Talon?" I said.

    "Possibly," she said. "Where are you?"

    Weren''t most Talon from V8?

    Some were from V6, if I remembered correctly the things that Tiana Ambervi used to tell me about all the time. I didn''t have much cause to really take notes, and I was no expert on hybrids of that sort- only an expert on survival in the Lowdown, where 99% of the enemy are humans that are so miserable, all they can ever do is force their own misery on other humans.

    Actually, were they even human?

    I pulled out my phone. I started scanning faces of other killers, holographs of suspects, most of whom were from the Lowdown and thus were assigned to me, facial composites wherever photographs were not available.

    Just looking at those ugly faces made me want to vomit.

    You know how you feel when you see a cockroach? Well, imagine that feeling multiplied by ten, by a hundred, by a thousand.

    That was how I felt whenever I saw those people.

    "Thornton Building, V4. Not far from you," I said. I telepathically spoke only half of my next sentence, before the most vehement interruption. "We need to get to the mi-"

    A resounding blast. A quick flash of light that penetrated even this tiny shack of a room. Something, not far away, had seemingly detonated. Ember shielded his ears from the consequent static while I turned to exit.

    "I know where to go," said Kaylee.

    I was glad I left Caleb''s jacket at home. Who knew what we were about to walk into? I was halfway down the hall when Ember''s voice halted me.

    "I have somethin'' for ya!"

    What, another deadly, addictive drug that was half of all of his profits? One that I couldn''t even afford?

    I didn''t even bother to roll my eyes. Thoughts ran through my mind- thoughts I''d had before, from past interactions with him.

    No thanks.

    I wondered what he was selling me this time; I didn''t stop walking.

    To be fair, at least he''s making death and misery a little bit more on the painless side, at least for some people, I remember thinking.

    I felt sick.

    I heard crates being knocked over, the rattling of a set of keys, and then hooves racing toward me from behind just as I reached the exit.

    "We got something for the Christopher Midnight," Ember said, grabbing my arm. "From allzus nobodies here in V-fouwh. We wanted to thank ya. Y''know, f''reverything."

    Ember unlocked a green polyvinyl chloride door a foot away from where we stood. He gestured for me to open the door.

    "You''ll love ''em, I sweah." He smiled. "Promise ya."

    I turned the knob and pushed the door open. There were two beings inside the small room- both of which had metallic brown collars on them which read, "FOR MIDNIGHT." A large, white Samoyed... and Happy the raccoon.

    I looked at him with a look of disgust on my face. Disgust and disbelief.

    "You imprisoned animals for me?" I said, unable to believe he could be so dumb.

    "We stole ''em," said Ember, "from the labs."

    "What ''labs,''" I replied flatly, and with no intonation- before realizing the answer.

    Okay why on earth do I ask THE STUPIDEST questions

    I wanted to cover my ears; I wanted to take the question back; I was shaking my head and I''m pretty sure there was a rainbow and a marshmallow and a blue sky-

    "Same labs whe'' they expeeyimented ahn us," said Ember. "I heard you been thyeah."

    --ovw--

    Nightingale

    Day #4

    Subprocedure Eleven

    Like they hadn''t injected enough stuff into us already.

    They had us all in a circle facing away from each other. Kaylee spoke to me, telepathically.

    "You''re alive," she said.

    I was concentrating too much on the burning glass tiles that shifted in front of me. They moved laterally. I remember thinking I just might survive- there was a method to their movement, a system; I was excellent at pattern recognition.

    "Danny!" she screamed inside my head.

    I responded back through the same telepathic connection, just through thoughts. I didn''t know I was a telepath at the time, I didn''t get it. It didn''t matter to me.

    "Kayles," I said. "The cracked tiles."

    "What?" she said.

    "The cracked tiles." I shifted my eyes, from my bare feet on the podium I was on- to the men and women who observed us from their glowing cinereous den, far away, to the left side of the behemothic expanse. "They move only if something around them gives off smoke."

    The voice on the intercom flickered with the lights; flickered with the flames that lit half the space- the space below us.

    "You will survive this test." It was a woman''s voice that time. It still sounded like the voice of evil. Just like the other one. "Simply make your way to any of the marked-off green platforms attached to the far walls."

    "All of these squares are on fire, Danny! And none of them even have any cracks in them!" Kaylee''s telepathic voice vociferated in my head. "How... are we going to survive this?"

    She was crying and I felt it in my mind, without even seeing her.

    I responded with thoughts, unaware I was now communicating the same way she reached me- through telepathy.

    "Kayles." My telepathic voice was mostly similar to my physical one: always silvery and mellow and soft, no matter what I did, no matter what song I sang. Only it was a touch lighter than it already was. It worked in our favor here. "Calm down, think, breathe, and look," I said to her, smoothly, and as soothingly as I could. I paid attention to the path I was going to take to the nearest platform. "Look, and I mean: really look. Closely."

    In my mind I could feel her slowly calming, slowly coming to the understanding.

    "We are going to burn," she said.

    "We have burned before. That''s why we''re still here."

    "What did they inject into us?"

    "Can''t think about that now, Kayles."

    The gong sounded.

    I somersaulted forward onto a tile and instantly wished that I hadn''t- as the podiums all crumbled to dust that seemed to be blown away, by some wind that no one there could feel. It wasn''t fire, at least not real fire; no fire sparked and sizzled and seared and hurt like this fire did.

    My mind kicked itself into overdrive; the pain was blinding- physically and mentally. The latter was a problem because I needed to think clearly.

    I heard other kids wail and scream and cry as the sound of bodies hit the poison-covered concrete far below us. I didn''t look down.

    Forward, or die.

    A strange combination of yell, growl, and animal howl tore out of my throat and resonated in the seemingly empty space above tile-level. I was in pain, so much pain, a murderous amount of exceedingly unimaginable agony and sickness- like my Achilles'' tendons were snapping themselves repeatedly on a frying pan- but I needed a few more seconds to identify the squares that had those insanely subtle markings- cracks- on them.

    What an indicator. What a way to help us, help us stay alive. I didn''t know what this was. I just wanted out.

    Did I tell you there was no "out" and it wasn''t over for three months?

    "Move slowly," I said to Kaylee, through our minds. It was a tug-of-war between extreme pain, or death. "It''s temporary, Kayles. The pain will eventually stop. Think about your next move-"

    "I can''t!" The sounds in our heads; her telepathic voice almost paralyzed me completely. Someone''s pain could travel, you experienced it, when you communicated with telepaths this way.

    "You can or you will die and I will lose you!"

    I spotted my next glass tile as the beastlike, animal instinct to just survive, the instinct probably ingrained into my very being by generations and generations and more generations of people who liked to cause war, took over entirely.

    It was a torture chamber, just one of many in the awful, awful thing they called Experiment Nightingale. That day it looked like a chess board: children made pawns in a fire of agony and shards and dust and blood; children made pawns under the hands of adult humans- the ones that were supposed to protect them.

    Like I hadn''t already been in that setup.

    The corners of my field of vision were changing colors, from some deep shade of violet, and then a painfully bright white, and then back again and back again.

    Left.

    Forward.

    Left.

    Left-

    Somewhere in all the pain, my two existing brain cells called out to me. I breathed as deeply as I possibly could- which was not deep at all because of the pain- and took one look around me, at the faint, faint little lines of the cracks in these dark glass squares.

    "Kaylee!" I screamed her name, out loud, so that others that were still alive might hear me. "Left, left..." I lurched, sideways, gasping for breath and heaving my own body onto the next square. The glass didn''t shatter, didn''t crumble and burn to dust and then ashes and fall- but that had nothing to do with my weight. I knew, then. "Left, then forward! Find the ones with cracks in them- if one''s in front of you, take it, and the next three correct tiles are always the ones on the left!"

    Somehow in all this chaos, something caught my eye, just for a fraction of a second. Far at the den of the adult torturers- a man, it seemed like, I couldn''t really tell for sure because they all wore masks or helmets- with long straight hair, almost scarlet in color... or maybe it just looked that way to me at the time. I wouldn''t know.

    Did I imagine it, or did he say my name? Call out to me?

    I guessed I did just imagine it, because before I even looked away he had already walked out their little terrace, and back into... wherever. Whatever was behind the far walls. Laboratories, I assumed? I wasn''t sure I''d ever find out.

    Halfway between these thoughts, and clouds, and affliction, I performed my one last maneuver of that day- a front layout full in, pike out- and onto the marked-off green platform; the exact same one that I had set my sights on while still on that no-longer-present podium. I landed a perfect stick with both my feet together, not realizing they both were already broken.

    --ovw--

    Don''t wait for my answer

    Don''t call back

    Got none for you

    More silver, no bullets

    The wolf cries

    When I touch you

    Give it up when it all comes to an end

    Because I''m not fighting for you

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XXXII--ovw--

    MONDAY

    7:46 AM

    Thornton Building

    OMG DOGGY YAY!!!, screamed a voice in my mind.

    Mine.

    Happy the raccoon bounded instantly up and onto my shoulder, like a cat that needed to climb up a tree to avoid a mutated coyote-wolf hybrid- the kind you occasionally still saw in some areas of V6 and V8. The Samoyed followed minus the climbing up on top of me.

    "I''m calling you Jupiter Two," I said to the dog.

    Jupiter was an Alaskan Malamute we had before Crayon or Skittles. He didn''t die of old age or natural causes, either. Good thing Emberion didn''t just randomly incarcerate these two or else I would''ve ignited him in the balls. The Samoyed looked up at me with its tongue out, wagging its fluffy white curled tail and alternately flapping its ears. I knelt on one knee and patted its head.

    "Awwwwww!" I squealed, the way I almost always did around virtually any dog. "I''m sorry," I said to the Samoyed, and the raccoon, "but neither of you can come with me right now!"

    The Samoyed cocked its head.

    "You can''t come with me," I repeated.

    Almost in answer- and much to my surprise- the dog turned to face the tile-and-cement wall, barked at it, and then offhandedly opened its jaws to projectile vomit flame at it.

    PROJECTILE VOMIT FLAME at it.

    I had to stand there and process what I just saw.

    Same labs whe'' they expeeyimented ahn us, Ember had said.

    My jaw dropped but only barely.

    "Okay," I said. "So..." I was still wrapping the rest of my mind around how simultaneously perplexing and bothersome, yet also riveting, these... results were. I cleared my throat, flexed my fingers, and continued. "A fluffy, adorable, fire-breathing... doggy."

    "Samoyed," Ember said.

    "YES EMBER I KNOW WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE," I replied. "Does the raccoon... shoot lasers or something?"

    "The ''yacoon iz a combination," Ember said, turning to look at me with a rather grim look on his slightly lopsided face, "of youse'' and the Davenport girl."

    I wasn''t sure how much information I could handle at once.

    "Which means?" I demanded, yet not at all certain I really wanted to know an answer.

    From nothing at all and with only a very subtle flash of light, between its little hand-paws, our fluffy, brown, white, and gray friend created what looked almost like... a small, red apple.

    A slow exhale hissed through my imperfect teeth.

    A combination of youse'' and the Davenport girl.

    Was it, really? Could it? And if so, how? And if so, was it a coincidence?

    How could...

    I took a breath.

    It has to be a coincidence.

    "Okay, it makes apples." I looked at the floor, pressing the tips of my middle fingers to the tops of my ears. "I..." I paused, I took a breath. I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I don''t do that, I don''t make apples. I just tumble."

    Emberion took the tiny red fruit from Happy''s forepaws, casually took a bite and crunched away next to my ear.

    Within seconds he swallowed, and then he made some kind of sighing sound that to me sounded almost like relief- really sweet relief.

    "Ember," I said.

    "Thyea'' both male. Both move pretty fast. Should be helpful. New pets youse'' can take to the beach."

    "Just tell me, Ember."

    Jupiter Two sat down in front of me and raised his paw in the air. I wrapped a hand around it.

    "Chris," Ember said, "it''z not dat big of a deal."

    Emberion Myelantic put his hands, perhaps in his most comforting way, on my arms, just below my shoulders. The little apple core was still in the fingers of his left hand.

    Maybe not that big of a deal if you weren''t the boy that actually lived through Nightingale with exactly one other survivor- and wanted nothing to do with that trauma and that fear. No, thank you. Even if that reminder was a cute raccoon with superpowers. Even Kaylee wouldn''t need it.

    So maybe not that big a deal for Ember.

    He was talking, but I was in a fog. I shook my head.

    "Sorry," I said, perceptibly, gradually coming back into focus. "Say that again." What were we talking about, again? Somewhere in the last couple of moments I released Jupiter Two''s paw and he was holding it up for me again, but I didn''t move at all this time. I was a frozen statue with lungs and a beating heart. "My fault. Sorry. What was that?"

    "We don''t know," Ember said, very slowly, in a low and soft voice that almost didn''t belong to him- save for the very conspicuous Vicinity Four accent and the rough, raspy speech- "if it''z coincidence. Maybe it iz. Da frootz take away pain, too."

    --ovw--

    Because to you

    It doesn''t matter if I mean it, no

    It only matters if it "sells"

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XXXIII--ovw--

    MONDAY

    7:59 AM

    V4

    Nothing to do with Nightingale, please, repeated the voice in my head. Nothing. Please. Thanks.

    My head had the words on rewind and repeat as the sky- which just half an hour earlier indicated no perceptible incoming change- shifted slowly into a shade somewhere between turquoise blue and emerald green. Same was the color of the snow that was falling down as I wrapped my left hand in cotton bandages. I was told that thousands of years ago, the weather was "just a little" less unpredictable than what we have now, here in the Overwoods, but I wouldn''t know.

    Happy the raccoon nibbled on the biscuit I bought for him at Baker Joe''s, the small fluffy thing still perched on my left shoulder. Jupiter Two seemed to almost lead the way. The adorable dog knew the way to the mines; that to me was a whole other mystery in itself.

    Well... the dog knew where to go, right?

    I started calculating distance. I was five blocks south of the Webwork, and maybe about thirty south of the entrance to Windcreek mines, when my phone rang.

    "Midnight," I said.

    No answer. Except for some static.

    Jupiter Two trotted ahead and Happy followed him; I stayed in place on the sidewalk.

    Where was Malcolm? Where was Caleb?

    Did Kaylee already get there?

    Somehow I hoped and intended not to be second to the mines- though I knew I had to drop by the Webwork first. I already left Meadows a message.

    "This is Midnight, Union of Stars," I said into the microphone, quickly glancing at the screen to see that I was in fact still connected to whoever this was. The top of the screen, which usually showed the phone number calling, read "UNKNOWN."

    I could make out the tower of the Webwork from where I stood. I positioned my feet- right foot on the ground behind me, left poised on the asphalt in front of me, ready to run, and throw my half-turn takeoff.

    "If you can hear me," I said, "I don''t hear any response from you right now." I calculated my line. About sixteen or seventeen running steps before I throw myself onto my hands and back again onto my feet, my back to the correct direction, how high to lift up...

    I continued.

    "If this in any way U.S. related," I said, "and urgent, please reach James Tobler." I swung my free arm. "If this is one of my friends, I love you." Without further thought, I started running. "Either way, I wish you happiness."

    Typically I said I wish you happiness, sunflowers, love, and light, but I had a lot on my mind.*

    I didn''t usually believe in hurting people. There was almost zero exception- but if this was the same person who had hurt Malcolm, killed the innocent pets that harmed not a single soul, ever, and now potentially could be holding someone I cared about in their grip, I might not choose to negotiate.

    This threat wasn''t exactly new. People I loved were in captivity before.

    Silence. More static.

    No time.

    I disconnected, and then rebounded off the ground so hard it broke the ice inside of me.

    --ovw--

    *(Besides- that was said on my I''m-unavailable-right-now-please-leave-a-voicemail recording, so they''d hear it anyway if they called back.)

    --ovw--XXXIV--ovw--

    MONDAY

    8:04 AM

    V4, Approaching Webwork

    I twisted in the air one more time, before making contact with the ground, hitting the floor with both feet facing the direction I came from and then whipping backward into two and a half twists. I rebounded toward Connor, who was already waiting for me on the ice-coated rooftop.

    "Thank you," I said. I hugged Connor, even though I never hugged Connor. "Connor, what do you have?"

    "IS YOU KIDDING ME CHRIS WHAT IS THIS SHIT YOU JUST BOUGHT ME-" said Sam''s telepathic voice before I politely shut her out.

    Connor hugged me back and held on for much longer than I expected him to, even though I released my own grip immediately after remembering where I was and where I was going, and after realizing I am going to smell like cocaine.

    Or whatever it was they snorted nowadays.

    He puffed megacigarette fumes to his right, away from my face. His auburn-and-blue hair was disheveled; whiskers swaying in the wind; all gleaming in frost from the turquoise-emerald powder snow.

    I wore black jeans and a green jacket and a two-dollar red shirt from a WARGET clearance sale- all totally soaked, down to the fuzzy cotton bandages on my hand.

    Soaked but on fire. Freezing but not cold.

    I munched on a crunchy miniature apple, one that Happy the raccoon stuffed into my jacket pocket right before I settled into my launch.

    I was blinking the snow off my eyelashes when my cell phone rang again. I immediately hooked my earpiece on and answered.

    "This is Marblef-"

    "MARBLEFUCKYOURSELF MIDNIGHT WHAT ON EARTH IS-"

    "IT WAS FROM TIANA NOT EMBER OKAY???" I said politely with multiple invisible question marks that I''m sure Connor heard, too. "OKAY BYE."

    I looked at Connor.

    "That was a lot of question marks," he said.

    No shit, high yeehaw.

    His eyes widened. "WHAT did you just-"

    "I said I love you now can you please give me what we have please so I can go?" I said.

    I didn''t even punctuate anything.

    AND I MEAN COME ON I DIDN''T EVEN SAY THAT I JUST THOUGHT THAT YOU HIGH YEEHAW

    He dropped his megacigarette on the snow and curled both hands into fists.

    There was this weird, distinctly-US whistle in his voice I physically probably could not imitate when he said, "You tryna sound like yer so haaigh and mighty now, IS YOU, MIDNATT?"

    Midnight. Man, at least say it correctly.

    He was, often, a bit similar with Sam and Henry in one aspect: the alcohol on his breath.

    I MEAN COME ON HE EVEN SOUNDED LIKE A HIGH YEEHAW

    "What are you gonna do?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "Take me to Waffle House?"

    YEAH TAKE ME TO WAFFLE HOUSE YOU PERPETUALLY HIGH YEEH-

    He shook out his left fist, and aimed it at my right eye socket.

    Guess what:

    I didn''t even try to move.

    Flash of light; pinpricks of sparkling, invisible sound. I stumbled back for a bit, set my left hand on fire, and stared at the flames. The sound of impact seemed to come to me seconds later, only after the actual blow. Some combustiflies and and their butterfire companions hovered over, attracted to the flickering firelight that surrounded my fingers. For a moment I stared at the small lightshow of flying sparks, captivated.

    Orbiplosions

    SHUT UP, STUPID BRAIN

    I used to keep those little flying sparks as pets, because the Lowdown was so full of mosquitoes and other parasites- both the literal ones and the other, otherwise-not-literal parasites.

    I''m setting fires...

    Butterfires often followed me around as a child. I didn''t know why, exactly. But they were never bad company- I loved them, and Caleb loved them, too. We were always surrounded by them whenever we visited the Port together. It was always just us and the beach and the flying lights.

    Combustiflies did that with me too, all that following around. And also some birds. And stray dogs. And stray cats. It happened less often when I started to work for the US, but not with combustiflies. I don''t know why they stuck around.

    ORBI

    PLOSIONSSSS

    I spun in a circle, twisting into my left this time, barely leaving the ground and wrapping into the spin of a human tornado. The trail of flame, smoke, and golden-yellow light followed with each axis, like a comet''s tail, faster than a bullet, hotter than the stars.

    SHUT. UP. BRAIN!!!

    It crossed my mind that maybe Happy followed me around for the same reason combustiflies did. Or, perhaps, sources of light just like other sources of light.

    I found the ground with one foot while the other swung up and overhead. Three backwards laid-out rotations, to one full twist into a backwards rotation in pike.

    Both my heels slammed into Connor''s back, exactly where and how I wanted them to, and I just as quickly rebounded off of him into an immediate full-twisting double-tuck backwards as the impact pushed him onto the floor.

    As I landed without a sound, Connor stared at me like I was no longer person he knew the day before. Mouth agape, one hand on his stomach.

    "What the fuck''s gotten into you?!" he said.

    I said nothing.

    I didn''t hate fighting that day, because I wanted one.

    Regrettably, I knew why I wanted one. Also, I thought that that would be my first and only fight of the day.

    Spoiler alert: It wasn''t.

    I watched Connor stumble around on the frozen floor, one hand pulling at his neon-blue, half-invisible whiskers.

    I''m the one that got socked, I thought. Not you. Get up.

    The visible skin on my left hand started to change color from pale beige to dark red. That happened only if it was burning hot enough.

    More burning butterflies, mostly white and black, fluttered over towards us. I was their very small refuge from the frozen rain, and the thought made me smile. Combustiflies and butterfires often caused huge forest infernos- which, in the Overwoods, were actually essential for keeping the mutated basswood-aspen hybrids from devouring all of V6, all of V7, all of V8, and some parts of V4.

    I''m setting fires...

    That was better.

    Butterfires are to regular butterflies what combustiflies are to regular fireflies: highly illuminated, small-flame-versions of them. I wasn''t sure where they originated from, but I knew both butterflies and fireflies- at least the normal kind- were almost extinct. The only butterfly I had seen the entire year was the one tattooed on Torres''s face.

    Connor''s hands were empty. I wondered where his megacigarette went.

    "I deeen''t mean that," Connor said.

    One strand of my hair caught in my left eye. It was red.

    "I did," I said.

    I extinguished the flames and walked toward Connor, who was fumbling on ice and snow for his massive, synthetically-chemically-mind-altering-artificial cigarette.

    I kicked snow into his face.

    He was a slow attacker, yet a surprisingly heavy one. Often very predictable, too, which is why I provoked him to begin with. I stood still as a statue as he smashed the same fist into the same part of my face he did earlier.

    I stepped back, stepped back again, and covered my right eye with both hands. Blood trickled down between my fingers and dripped onto the rooftop floor, like red raindrops falling onto a canvas of concrete flooring, one made of ice, a canvas clear like the transparent part of any snowglobe, like the thermoplastic part of the boards of any skating rink.

    With only my left eye open, I stared at the ground, and at my blurred reflection, covered as it was in tablespoons of spreading red liquid.

    From miles above the water that I was deeply submerged and drowning in, Connor called my name. Both of them. I didn''t need to pretend I didn''t hear, because I mostly didn''t.

    "I-" he mumbled, "I- I''m really sorry, it''s not bad, is it?"

    I spotted the megacigarette on the ground first but waited until Connor picked it up.

    Only, he didn''t.

    And then, he did.

    It took him a full minute to realize that none of his insides felt like they were actually on fire. I spent that minute scooping up white powder snow, forming it into clumps, and then pressing the clumps to my face.

    Snow

    Yay

    I turned the cold white stuff pink.

    Or I thought I did, it actually just turned red. Still, to me, the coldness felt so unbelievably sweet. Indescribably so.

    Snow

    Yay

    Connor took a ridiculously long draft of the large, plum-flavored megacigarette for what to me seemed like forever.

    "Shit," he said, swirls of vapor and smoke combining in the air between us and repelling the butterfires, who fluttered away from his liquor breath in the falling snow before disappearing from view. The combustifly stayed perched on my elbow. "Shit," he said again. "Shit. Shit. SHIT!" He was starting to remind me of Sam Shilberg. The interjections of the mentally fractured. "Shit, I''m sorry-"

    I tuned out at that point.

    1) He wasn''t, he probably wasn''t, and

    2) I wanted it.

    Because that is me- sometimes, I like to get hurt.

    Not physically. Often, just emotionally. Often, I just need to feel the hurt to know I''m alive; that I even can feel. But that day was an exception, for what I believed were very obvious reasons. Those reasons still seem pretty obvious to me today.

    It wasn''t his problem.

    The interjections of the mentally fractured.

    Let me also just make this clear: by "mentally fractured" I also include myself. I am just as broken. I am not better.

    Yet at the same time I do remember thinking, But if only we could try to mend each other, not the other way around.

    "Connor," I said, "What do we have?"

    He blinked at me.

    ORBIPLOSIONS.

    You already won, brain. You can shut up now.

    "Just talk to me, Connor," I said, "Or The Ignite Part happens."

    His eyes widened. He didn''t like The Ignite Part.

    Just from the way Connor looked right then and there, I could tell he didn''t have a lot of very good news to tell me.

    Probably not, anyway.

    "What. Do. We. Have," I said.

    There you go. Punctuations.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Not sure," replied Connor. "But I- I think the perpetrator is... somewhere b''yond them mines."

    Beyond the mines?

    What "beyond the mines?"

    There''s no beyond the mines! Maybe a rock. Like, a big rock, or something. Maybe, a rainbow and a pot of gold.

    They also say that years ago that''s where the war started. The one which eventually led to Experiment Overwood.

    I mean, that''s what I''m told, so...

    Connor continued.

    "D''ya have any idea why?" he said.

    "Me?" I half-laughed, half-snorted. "And how exactly would I know anything?" I scowled for a second, then took a breath. "I''ve been off the case a week, Connor. I couldn''t even be where Sam was when she was hurt." I glanced over at my phone quickly just to check if whoever called had tried to reach me again. Nothing. "I had to find out later from Kaylee."

    "Y''know, James didn''t even want you to know anything."

    "Is that supposed to surprise me?"

    Connor took a puff on his megacigarette, and then huffed, clouds of almost black smoke mixing with the green snowflakes.

    "Let''s go inside," he said, still exhaling pure darkness through both nostrils and his mouth. "Bless yer heart. I''m freezin'' out here."

    "No," I said.

    He gave me a look.

    "Are you coming with us," I said, "or not? I don''t have all day. Is that all the info you have?" I closed my eyes, took a breath. "I''m sorry. We''re in a hurry here."

    A second combustifly- a pink one- landed on my arm, totally extinguished because of the weather, and I tucked it into the hood of my jacket to protect it from the snow. I wasn''t wearing the hood up anyway.

    "Where''s Caleb?"

    "We''re not sure."

    "Well, what else am I here for? Do you know where Malcolm is right now?"

    He shook his head.

    "Naw," he said.

    "Okay," I said. "Thank you. I''m leaving."

    "Someone has been sending letters to your desk," he said.

    "Belinda?" I asked.

    "No."

    "YOU?" I asked.

    He glared at me.

    "More threats?" I said.

    "Kind of," Connor said. "But... we think this perpetrator knows you. Almost personally."

    That was no information. Hundreds upon hundreds of messages from people pretending to know me and/or threatening to murder me and my nonexistent girlfriend have come in, most of them from the past two years alone.

    Interesting because I''d worked for the Union of Stars officially for only one.

    "Chris," Connor said, "D''ya know anyone from your..." he fumbled. He was crushing his megacigarette with the heel of his boot- he''d already tossed it onto the ground. You know, just like he crushed the one purple-and-bronze combustifly.

    "From my what?"

    "When you were, you know..." he said.

    "You mean from my constantly-abused-brainwashing-by-criminals-starvation-and-stomped-on-by-brainwashing-liars-sexual-abuse-more-forced-brainwashing era?" I said.

    "And Nightingale," Connor said. "From there, too."

    And that was that; that conversation was over.

    He and I already had one talk the night prior. And another one, too, when we argued about me not going to go show up and be a part of Belinda Klein''s investigation.

    GET REAL CONNOR. DID YOU REALLY THINK I WANTED TO BE THERE BECAUSE NO.

    No. And NO without necessarily needing any punctuation, as well.

    NO

    It''s one thing when you''re abused your entire childhood and your entire teenage life.

    It''s a less damaging- but still hurtful- other thing when you thought you trusted someone. You would have thought that at that point, I''d have seen it enough times to never trust anyone again.

    Remind me, what was one thing I didn''t like? People wasting my time. Most especially when something- something that mattered- was possibly at stake; possibly in danger.

    AND MAYBE BECAUSE OF ME, I thought.

    When Connor spoke again, he said, "I know I''m a perpetually high yeehaw." He held something out to me; he was offering me small object; I could barely see it and I only did with my left eye and everything was tinted in bloodred. In one of his hands there was a second, unused, massive cigarette. On its black, cylindrical paper wrapping, it read, DON''T GET TOO HIGH OFF YOU''RE OWN SUPPLY!!! LIMITED-EDITION SUPER SPEEDY LIME FLAVOR.

    First off, YOUR*

    Second: Ew.

    ????

    ??????????????!?????!!

    HE REALLY THINKS I''M ACTUALLY GONNA

    "I AIN''T GIVIN IT TOOO YAH, you half-assed half-trained MIDGET TUMBLING GYMNAST FREAK," he very literally spat at me. "Could ya just light my cigarette? Sam took my damned lighter ''fore she left the building." He stomped one foot on the ground, impatiently. "Go read a mind one time."

    I touched a finger to my right eye socket. It came away wet and red.

    I didn''t say it; I only thought it. Whether or not Connor Meadows was listening in, I will not say. I dropped blood-red snow from my hands and let it fall onto the ground with a slushie sound. Do you hit your wife like a perpetually high and drunk yeehaw, too? Does she hit you like a perpetually high yeehaw? Or is she too addicted to notice?

    I took the massive megacigarette with my damaged left hand; I used my right pinky finger and the warm, dripping blood from my face, and I finger-painted a smiley face on the paper wrapping of the stick. I put the megacigarette back in Connor''s hand without lighting it, because I knew that those sticks were very literally killing him. They were making him a perpetually more high yeehaw.

    And I faced northeast; I ran, and I vaulted off the rooftop railing without saying goodbye. I chose the Yurchenko onto the metal cap rail and chose the Shirai-II off of it, but remaining in flight with arms behind me and my blood raining down onto the earth below me. It would have been so nice if I had any sleep.

    --ovw--

    *Yurchenko usually means I hit the vaulting surface backwards; Shirai-II usually means I twist 3 & 1/2 times sideways/on the turning axis- once I''ve already blocked off of the surface of course- while still rotating backwards in the laid-out body position. (Or The Pencil Position, as I sometimes like to call it. That doesn''t sound weird at all, right?) Note to myself just in case somehow I forget. These gymnastics terms came from people who performed these flips thousands of years ago. And if you can''t read your own handwriting then FIND THE LIBRARY BOOK CALLED "THE OLYMP

    --ovw--

    This pen is running out of ink. What was I writing about? Oh, yes- the book called "THE OLYM

    --ovw--XXXV--ovw--

    New pen. WE GOOD, M8S!! Oh no so ungrammatical oh no.

    Was I writing about something specific?

    --ovw--

    MONDAY

    8:16 AM

    V4

    I was in the air flying toward Windcreek mines. My phone rang, and of course, it was Connor Meadows.

    "Do you have anything for me?" I said.

    "Sam is going to join you," Connor said.

    She was injured and yet still wanted to be there- a trait that she and I shared in the best of times, and in the worst of times.

    I nodded, though Connor couldn''t see it.

    "Okay," I said.

    I heard him exhale raspily. Probably more smoke.

    "And I''ll be there," he said. "You''ll need another undetectable."

    Still in the air, with sparkling blue-and-green skies around me, I smiled some sort of smile. Like, an "oh wow really?" and also a "well yeah why not" kind of smile.

    You know, WHY NOT ''cuz I mean he MOST CERTAINLY has the fists for it

    As you can see.

    Or not see.

    Pun half-intended.

    "Should I hang up?" I said.

    I was descending fast into my landing, colors of tall buildings lapsing by fast on both my sides, then turning into swift flashes of dark green intermixed with brown- the trees of the woods here. Some unmutated. Some... unlike the unmutated. Some way too large. Maybe because of their closeness and exposure to pure Vystir, or maybe also a result of experiment Overwood and the war- like in V8.

    Quickly, and with my right hand, I grabbed onto the long branch of an overly mutated scots pine, intending to swing upwards, northeast, and onto the large wooden platform that borders the mine''s least popular entrance- one Kaylee and I discovered on accident in one of our adventures years ago.

    One microsecond after my trajectory changed I knew I was headed for trouble.

    I''d calculated the extra weight of the biting water that soaked all my clothes- but not how the snow would affect my grasp on the branch. I lost my grip on the branch just a fraction of a second too early, now I had no idea where I''d land. I knew immediately I''d end up passing the platform where Kaylee was armed and waiting for me by about a mile, at least.

    I kept my eyes peeled, stayed alert, now needing to anticipate unfamiliar landing spaces I wasn''t familiar with. I twisted, spinning with my arms kicked out to slow my rotation, waving to Kaylee as I passed her, standing there on the elevated podium outside the entrance where I had initially expected to land.

    "Hiiiiiiii!" I yelled, maybe two seconds before my weight of maybe about 102 pounds finally pulled down toward the ground, but not before slamming into several overlarge trees that basically turned me into a molecule in appearance- a molecule slamming from one tree to the next, bouncing in a zigzag pattern until I landed somewhere near an old, abandoned hydraulic shovel, with a few abandoned mining drill rigs around it, and some more trees. I still landed on my feet.

    Well, I landed on my feet and then rolled into the hydraulic shovel.

    I don''t think I was injured- at least not too badly- apart from the heavily bleeding nose. I crawled, and then sat with my back leaning on the side of the hydraulic shovel. I pinched my nose shut and then ended up just having to swallow the blood, which somehow decided to just drip down and make its way to my esophagus instead.

    "Yay," I whispered to no one. "I love trees."

    And I really did, for the most part. I still do. I loved them until a moment later, when dark shapes emerged from the surrounding trees.

    Okay get out of here please like now, I thought to myself.

    Out out out out out out out

    But I stumbled, fumbling as I realized that a giant splinter had embedded itself into the inside of my left leg. It was a piece of bark from a mutated tree, half-covered in skin and half-covered in fresh blood. It was disgusting. Hideous. I debated pulling it out with my bare hands, but I wasn''t sure if that would only make it worse. I marveled at how black and how red it was at the same time.

    Maybe the blood that decorated my leg was somehow actually from my nose.

    Yeah, that totally makes sense.

    And I still didn''t know where Caleb was. Or Malcolm, for that matter.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    I reached through to Kaylee telepathically. And I knew that she sensed my tone and aura immediately; the kind of energy you get immediately upon connection with a fellow telepath, as long as their guards weren''t on and you were close to them.

    "Kayles." My telepathic voice was still a very mellow and very calm sound.

    Very, very slowly, I limped over toward one of the mining drill rigs. I wiped my hands on what Caleb once told me is called the drill boom, a rusty old thing on the front of the rig. It was broken and low, closer to the ground than it normally would be. I smeared my blood on it.

    "You''re okay, aren''t you?" she said.

    I stared at my own blood. Just like I did, just like I did thousands of times, most of those times during the three-month experiment they called Nightingale.

    Once during a suicide attempt after.

    "Nope," I said.

    "Can you defend yourself?" said Kaylee.

    My ignite was either unreliable or just extremely inefficient if I was badly hurt, or disoriented. It was a 50/50 in a case like this- my ability to inflict the intense burning sensation of pain upon contact.

    "I..." I said. I swallowed some more blood. "I don''t know if I can ignite right now."

    "Just turn it on anyway," she replied. "I''m coming to you, I''ll find you."

    Wings, the feathers black on some, and then a very dark shade of purple on others. Big wings.

    The Talon.

    I thought they weren''t supposed to be anywhere except Vicinity Eight?

    "Kayles," I said, a new degree of alarm spreading like plasma mixing into the already red effluence and aura, the energy I put into the telepathic binding. "Don''t." I took a moment to accept what was around me. "Talon."

    I looked around, before speaking through the connection again. Some of them were larger than others. None of them under six foot five. People- well, partly people, I supposed- who were larger than regular humans, with sharp mouths, un-metaphorically sharp mouths that almost looked a lot more like...

    "Okay," I said. "They don''t have mouths. They have beaks."

    "What?" said Kaylee. "But they''re-"

    "Not supposed to be anywhere but V8," I replied.

    She spoke slowly. "So..."

    One of the Talon approached me slowly, like a zombie, a zombie executioner; an enormous red axe was held lifted in his large, insanely muscular arm. His eyes were the exact same color of my blood. Others followed, from almost all sides.

    Almost like that one time in Nightingale.

    Maybe there were even more coming from behind the drill rig...

    "We''ve been lied to again, Kayles." I closed my eyes for a moment. And then, I thought a fleeting thought out loud to where Kaylee could hear it: "We''re not the only test subjects that left the place we were supposed to be confined to." I stood on one leg, though thankfully adrenaline was now course through me, starting to make the pain just slightly tolerable. I was still dizzy.

    I coughed, again, this time with blood exiting my system through both my mouth as well my nostrils. I coughed again, then cleared my throat. I looked up at the sky. Light blue and light green, like peppermint bubblegum candy.

    "Charlie November Alpha," I said, "on the ignite situation. Arrowvine, don''t come here."

    "You''re not stopping me," she said.

    "I''m stopping you," I replied.

    "You wouldn''t leave me behind," Kaylee said. "Even if I told you to."

    I tried to see if the trees were an escape option. No, there were several more that I could see- and possibly even more, but concealed- up in the mutated sugar pines and the sequoias. Even if I was fast enough.

    I was going to have to fight, and probably die.

    "...don''t come here." I repeated myself. "You know those monsters back in the, um." I couldn''t say it; I didn''t say it.

    "The N-word?"

    "Um," I said. "Yeah."

    "Nightingale," she said.

    One of the Talon swooped above my head, almost decapitating me in the process. I just barely made it below the fortified drill feed of the machine behind me. It chopped that off, instead.

    "They''re almost like some of the monsters from that experiment!" I said, flexing my fingers, reminding myself I was still in control of them. "Only... a little bit different. Maybe." Without meaning to, I began to cry. "I don''t know. I don''t know anymore. I don''t know anything. I don''t want to remember anything."

    "Chris," she said, firmly, "just stay calm. I''ll be there whatever you say. Remember what you said to me in Nightingale?"

    ...what I said to her in Nightingale?

    One of the creatures, a different one from the axe-holder and the flying head-chopper, stabbed at me with some kind of almost medieval-looking pitchfork. Only this one was on fire and blazing hot; the entire weapon was glowing, searing orange. I sidestepped, parrying and pushing it away with my right elbow. Sparks flew into my face and eyes as I stepped backward, managing whatever distance I could from these monsters, grunting from the effort it took to move my leg normally and now the burn on my elbow.

    What I said to her, in Nightingale? That was a three-month long experiment; she certainly wouldn''t be getting any points for specificity. I knew she was reading my mind.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Kayles," I said. "Which night?"

    "Fifty-three," she replied.

    "I..." I was remembering other things that happened that night. That day of the experiment. It wasn''t the nicest night of my life and it isn''t one I like to remember very much. Kaylee should know that...

    Kaylee''s telepathic voice surged, powerful and blunt like a tidal wave of anger visible only to two telepaths in that moment, into both our minds- something she chose to do; perhaps she was trying to drown out my vivid memories of the nightmare that was Nightingale, or maybe her own, or both. "If we die we die together."

    I ran toward one of the Talon, no longer planning to attempt communication or negotiation. Right knee up, left leg behind, a twisting spin toward my left, and my right heel and fist both connected with the face of the creature- and the axe fell.

    It took me about two seconds to then realize- there was no was I could possibly lift it. It was probably twice my weight or maybe even triple.

    I knew that pretty soon that Talon man or Talon creature or whatever it was would be back up and simply wield the weapon again. And he was bigger than me of course, yet also bigger than all of the other Talon...

    Just like that one time in Nightingale.

    Or every other time.

    I looked up, and saw the extension of one of the rigs was directly above me.

    Did I want to kill one of them? No. Did I want to at least stay alive until Kaylee got here? Probably.

    With my relatively un-hurt leg I swung four hard kicks- using backward gainers- into the rusty extension, then landing one one knee and rolling sideways.

    I had only the time to get up as the drill boom and drill rod broke apart, the drill hammer falling precisely where I calculated it would- on the axe handle. I flinched as the handle snapped- it didn''t sound like a piece of wood breaking. At least not regular wood. It sounded almost like the snapping of a tree, magnified by ten.

    The Talon man whose weapon I destroyed let out an electrifyingly loud cry- some kind of crow noise but combined with that opera my class had to watch in third grade (which, by the way, nobody liked except for the teacher), and also combined with an audible, palpable, amount of agony.

    "Did a tree fall?" said Kaylee.

    Is that what it sounded like?

    "Answer: no." The Talon man got up, flew over to his axe, and got a grip on the blunt side of the axe head. He was still crying out, either unwilling to pull it free from under the broken drill hammer... or unable to. His wings were flapping like crazy, almost like he was throwing some kind of crow tantrum. "Question: Where are you?" And physically, to the Talon man, I said, "I''m so sorry about your axe!"

    "I... don''t know. I just followed the general direction you flew in," Kaylee replied.

    I didn''t eat anything for a week except for the three pieces of French toast. That stupid spray from the canister or whatever was still making me cough.

    I threw a roundoff and then a layout with a full, landing stuck on the shoulders of the second-tallest Talon creature and then double-flipped backward to get away from the biggest threat. I wondered what I did to it...

    I effectively landed both my feet on one of the monsters eye sockets and rebounded off of it. From the way it cried out after- and the little "sparking" sensation I felt in my heels- I''d guess my ignite was on. At least for the moment.

    But as soon as I landed, another Talon- I guessed a woman Talon, by the looks of it- grabbed me by both my arms. I kicked wildly- with both my injured and uninjured legs- willing my ability to inflict the burning sensation to work, but it wouldn''t. She grabbed arms from behind me, and like all the other Talon, there was no chance someone my size was going to outmuscle her.

    Then that other Talon- seemingly a male, the one that held the blazing pitchfork- was swinging his weapon like a lunatic, burning and stabbing the horde in front of him, anything in his way.

    To get to me.

    "Kaylee," I said. "Just don''t come here. I... don''t have a chance of surviving."

    I tugged one more time, hard; my arms didn''t come loose.

    I''d been tied to chairs or torture devices or to dead bodies, or even to Kaylee- but these were arms I had, seemingly, no way of breaking out of.

    "We survived three months of torture, Chris," she replied. "This is nothing. Stay calm, and just stay alive! I''ll find you very soon!"

    "No, I-"

    I closed my eyes- waiting, anticipating, expecting the crazed Talon man to shove the tines of his blazing pitchfork straight through me.

    "Chris?"

    I remember thinking maybe, maybe I''d see Skittles or Crayon again, or maybe even Marie, too. Maybe I''d meet a family that was for me; I wasn''t going to survive this, and I could give up the fight. Maybe I could finally have some sort of cute fox-like animal pet, like the one on that little trinket Sam Shilberg wore on her wrist.

    I think somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered, for a moment, if the murdered child I hadn''t met might be with them- would I ask for answers? Would it matter?

    Did I believe I''d see my parents again- my real ones?

    In that split fraction of a moment I felt maybe somehow I knew them; I''d just lost them so early. I wasn''t one to be dependent- never was, but an unusual sliver of helplessness and a longing for nurture or love had cut through me.

    I remember my eyes were closed, the wooden shard in my left leg, thinking that maybe it was no different from the experiment, afterward; perhaps, it was enough that I helped Kaylee survive through that ordeal and all that followed.

    Perhaps, it was easier to deal with. I was already out of Nightingale- me and Kaylee both.

    I remember thinking: Hey. I was going to kill myself, anyway... wasn''t I? Maybe, Caleb can catch the instigator of the murders.

    The only sad thought I can remember was that there were possibly still rings, abuse rings, exploitative hellions and firebrands- evil scum with no principles, no morals- that I still hadn''t stopped.

    Part of me waited- waited for the pain- both physical and emotional, to ebb; to stop and to go away.

    "Danny! What''s going on?"

    I remembering saying a prayer, the way I always did.

    --ovw--

    I felt something, and I wasn''t sure if it was the sensation of burning metal through my body.

    The Talon woman''s arms loosened on mine and, more muscle memory than anything else, I elbowed her hard in the solar plexus- with my left arm now- and spun into a left arc kick to disarm the creature in front of me. As it were, I didn''t need to disarm him, even as my heel smashed hard into his temple- because when I turned to look... the pitchfork was on the ground; embedded into the Talon woman''s face.

    I communicated telepathically with Kaylee Ann Davenport once more.

    The crazed Talon who initially held the pitchfork looked at me- his eye color was some type of red mixed with purple and some brown- and then flew away. He didn''t retaliate, after I attacked him out of defense.

    I felt the spark in my heel. I''d ignited him.

    "Kaylee, your sense of direction right now is maybe kind of crap," I said, "but I love you, and if no one gets here soon... I will die. Find Caleb and Malcolm-" I dodged fangs and claws from a Talon man that used no visible weapons, but he was fast. If he would be the one that would end up killing me, I hoped he would make it fast, too. Physically, I spoke the words "I''m not here to fight you!" which none of the horde seemed to really understand, or care about.

    "We''ll find them together," Kaylee said. She spoke her next words very slowly. "Marblefox, you''re still alive. And that is no surprise to anyone, at all." She gripped me telepathically with the sound of her words, like she was there and shaking my shoulders. "Radio silence. I know where you are; we both need to focus. Find a sharp object. Survive. Arrowvine out."

    Find a sharp object.

    Survive.

    I''d done this before.

    Find a sharp object. Survive. I looked around, hoping for something, anything. But I found nothing- there was nothing. And I couldn''t pick up that pitchfork, or the axe. And then, my eyes drifted to my leg, the left one. The one where a giant splinter from a mutated tree had embedded itself.

    Not again...

    --ovw--XXXVI--ovw--

    MONDAY

    8:46 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    From injuries, to mind control, to Zapryekavil, to being told I was loved and appreciated and desperately, desperately wanting so bad to believe it...

    Don''t get me wrong; sometimes, I did. I did, at times really believe it- which to me was better than nothing; better than never, in my opinion at least.

    As I watched the horde of the Talon closing in on me- again- I sat just about unmoving, on the ground, letting the turquoise-emerald snow shimmer and fall down around me. I knew I was going to fight; I knew I was going to have to. I didn''t know where Kaylee was. Or Caleb, or Malcolm. I didn''t know the future. I still don''t. But, hey- I saved a little combustifly that day and from what the one surgeon-doctor-guy had said, and according to Caleb and Kaylee, and according to Wyatt (though that probably didn''t count)- I saved Elyza, too. And Elyza''s not nobody. While I worked for a union that I didn''t necessarily always understand (I didn''t think any of us really did understand... except for James, maybe?), I knew that the small fraction of the U.S. population that I held close to me were humans- humans with good hearts, the kind that to me had positive intents (though that intent didn''t always come in the prettiest of packaging).

    I wasn''t one that searched for much- just one that searched for the ones that are capable of love; the ones that are capable- capable of the kindness that makes us human.

    It was so much better than the Lowdown.

    I remember as I sat there, with the mutated shard of Overwoods mutated giant splinter thingamabob thingy buried in my one leg, I told myself that if I was about to get killed, I''d at least stopped several ring leaders of abuse or murders or drugs or trafficking already- one way, or the other. Sometimes that way was something I''d tell the board at the Union of Stars'' headquarters... sometimes not.

    I felt like, I had a few friends, a job where I was needed, people I was helping- and I felt fortunate, that I was helping constantly; that I was able to do so.

    It was more, much more, than what I had only three years prior to that moment.

    Welcome to my mind, I guess.

    --ovw--XXXVII--ovw--

    MONDAY

    8:47 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    Find a sharp object. Survive.

    I took a deep breath- at least the deepest possible breath I could- bent down, placed my fingers on the edge of the mutated wood shard.

    This is a joke, I lied to myself.

    --ovw--

    Nightingale

    Day #16

    Subprocedure Twenty

    "I can''t breathe."

    The girl behind me was gasping. Screaming and gasping, the rope of deep velvet polyethylene and nylon wrapping and tightening slowly around her neck and shoulders. Crushing them, but only as slowly as the torturers wanted.

    Why? Why did they pick her?

    Because I volunteered to be the one "tested" on, and then they intentionally selected the other child across from my cage, instead.

    That didn''t mean I was spared; I was one of fifteen other prepubescent humans, none of us (save, perhaps, for Kaylee Ann Davenport) ever having enough to eat, not once in our lives- unless perhaps the food shops in Vicinity Two had any wastage they couldn''t take to the collectors in time; anything that went past the actual demand and was about to expire, things they had to throw out.

    Almost all people from the Lowdown, and most people from the Vicinities, simply hated those that were from the Suburbs, or from mainland U.S..

    Personally, I didn''t resent any of the rich folks- with the understanding that there is no good thing that does not take work. I supposed it was another thing that the people from the Lowdown found so different about me; I simply didn''t hate or didn''t resent. For them, it was so easy; so natural- to simply live in resentment or bitterness than to learn from those that might show more capability.

    But I did renounce anyone that spoke of hunger like it was something of entertainment.

    That said, I hadn''t eaten, except for a bottle of chlorinated water and an expired MRE they were generous enough to give me through the thin iron bars. I was still vomiting.

    "Charlotte Miller," read the name on the tag of the girl choking to death behind me.

    A hologram of a man appeared in front of us in the center of the pit, smack dab in the middle of the concrete and macadam. Spotlights, huge, bright white beams of light- twice the compass and dimension of the glass fish bowl from my science classroom (the same science classroom where Kaylee and I always partnered together) in terms of their diameter- promenaded around us; blinding gyroscopic lights in this dance to the death.

    The hologram of the man- his eyes covered by two-way glasses, his hair covered by some kind of expensive black fedora which almost no one who I knew at the time could ever afford to buy- and his chain of blue diamond and gold, shined in the high-quality fakeness of the intangible image. The man himself was about fifty feet above us and then about twenty yards laterally behind me, and safe behind his multi-layered walls of FR4 laminated fiberglass and inhumanity.

    The girl behind me croaked, like a crow''s caw, and I heard what sounded like snapping of bone.

    I''d be next if I didn''t win; I''d be next if I didn''t survive.

    The man''s hologram seemed to look at Kaylee Davenport, who was one of the fifteen remaining in this test.

    "That''ll be you next," the man said, his voice some strange tone and inflection, still sounding like the disembodied, afflictive, ear-destroying voice of defilement; of corruption and of evil itself- a voice I learned to listen for and knew to recognize early from my days in the Lowdown, though this man''s was slightly more tolerable. "If your little puppy boyfriend..." He turned slightly, looked over his shoulder... at me? "Can''t do what needs to be done."

    All at once, arms- either human arms or arms of some sort of human-like monster, or at least to me that''s what they felt like- took hold of me, from behind.

    I only barely remember, but I think for just one fraction of a second, I saw the monster''s face; the face of whatever grabbed me. And I remember, because he looked like the friend I went to school with; the only other person who remembered my birthday the year before, besides Kaylee or her brother.

    "You''re a nice person, and you shouldn''t do other people''s homework," he told me, as he gave me the pudding and the banana from his lunch bag. And a slice of chocolate cake. "My mom made this," he told me. "I told her to save one for my best friend at school."

    His name was Carter. I never saw his face again after the monster Carter stuck the needle into my neck, two seconds after he grabbed me.

    --ovw--

    Tears stung in my eyes, and they were dark red- blood red. I could feel the needle buried in my neck and wanted to do something, anything- but for those few seconds I was unable to move. I remember shutting my eyes, and hearing something snap- maybe something in my body; maybe something in Charlotte Miller''s body. I could no longer tell. I was still trapped, in the arms of a friend I once knew; the one that gave me a brownie and a slice of cake.

    "Your friend''s not a killer," I heard the man''s voice say. I saw almost nothing, barely anything but dark red. I''m not sure who exactly he was addressing. But I tried to blink a few times and saw he was still looking at Kaylee. There was an awful, absolutely horrible pause where all I heard was Charlotte''s ragged wails of pain. "But I heard he does what he has to."

    I remember hearing the strange man''s laughter, echoing back and forth, all over the cavernlike walls around us- as Carter tossed my diminutive body straight onto the ground, hard. What little air I had in me during the struggle was knocked dead right out of my lungs; I was gasping but felt like no air would enter my body. The only indication of what was up or down was that my hands were on the dusty graphite floor. I blinked, rapidly, desperately trying to slowly regain whatever degree of visual perception I could. I looked to Kaylee, who was, literally, a shade of light green- and called her name.

    "Kayles," I said, my voice merely some kind of pain-induced caw mixed with all of the panting, "Help."

    No response.

    Much weaker than usual, I pulled the syringe needle savagely out of my own neck, the buried end still shining with some kind of metallic dark purple, almost like some of those little orchids I helped Kaylee and the custodian-slash-gardener lady water or sometimes prune, back in school, in the mornings after my every night of abuse. This little activity was a small light; one that waited always at the end of each and every one of the 5,000 tunnels I was forced to walk through on a nightly basis. Unless it was snowing, of course. Cold, shiny, teal and turquoise. Sam Shilberg was someone I met years later, and one of the very first things I said to her was that her eyes were just like the Overwoods snow.

    My fingers scraped the dirt, the needle now a blurry violet stick on the end of a plastic syringe lying on the ground, in yet another now-familiar puddle of my own plasma. I didn''t remember bleeding. I didn''t remember dropping the syringe, either.

    What I did remember was what happened next: a rattling sound, like sewing needles and buttons inside a circular, empty, metal tin for sugary and buttery biscuits- the ones I saw in magazines in the school library and in the massive garbage dumps back in the Lowdown, where I sometimes stole my dinner from. The sound was behind me, and I turned not to find the monster Carter, but to find some kind of corpse- but a walking one. A set of bones and flesh with no head, limbs in awkward and bothersome angles, twitching and snapping at random.

    This was not something that even the most archaic of dictionaries had any words for. Not to me. Maybe walking wasn''t the best word. Maybe gravitating. Pulling itself towards me. The other children were gone; there was nothing there but me, and moving, crackling, disfigured cadavers. The gyroscopic motion of the lights slowed, and then flickered. They were no longer white but instead red; red, and everything else- save for the bodies- was some kind of dreary, bleak gray, and black.

    Deep red light and mutilated cadavers were all I saw as I fought for my life yet again; for however long that particular fight was.

    What I knew at that moment was that a fight of even five minutes felt like eternity, if all you knew was that you had absolutely nothing anymore, but the primal, animal part inside you that begged to survive even as you consciously wanted only to escape.

    I felt something- to this day I''m still unsure what- some kind of, perhaps, mind control, hands wrapping around my very skull and turning, though what I felt was not a physical torment but one that told me that what I had to do was to grab a knife and then do the very opposite of what I wanted most; what I wanted most was to harm myself. Not anything else or anyone else; myself. The lights flickered blood and the mutilated specters- now multiple of them- cracked their own ribs as they all danced towards me.

    "Dance, Danny! Dance, my boy, dance!" screamed a voice that was simultaneously too many octaves too low and also too many octaves too high, at once. Was it the man''s voice? The man in the fedora? Was it Kaylee''s? Who else was around that might speak at all? The girl, who was my age, who was being choked to her death? I didn''t remember seeing anyone. Suddenly, Charlotte Miller was in front of me, her neck snapped, her shoulders both severely dislocated, her eyes open and staring straight at me. One moment, she was nowhere; not nearby or in the periphery- then without blinking, she was there. In her hand she held a razor blade. She offered it to me.

    I felt nothing but guilt.

    Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt.

    If Kaylee was reading my mind from wherever she was, she either didn''t come in to stop me from what I was going to do, or she wasn''t able to.

    Then Charlotte Miller spoke.

    To me, it was surprising, and frightening enough, that she spoke at all; that she spoke to me. But the words she spoke made even less sense.

    "Survive," she said to me. There were tears in her eyes. "Survive for us."

    I took the blade and held one of her hands, tight. But I felt nothing- nothing. No pain. I could take no pain; I could hold her, or press my hand to her skin all I wanted- but I could not save her. I could not soothe her, soften the pain, take away the suffering which she did not ask for, did not deserve.

    She was gone.

    How do you take pain from someone who''s died? And because of you?

    Something liquid ran from my eyes; this time, it was water, not blood.

    "Don''t dance with them," she said, "don''t go with them, don''t follow them."

    That was when I felt it-

    Something unearthly, unreal, bizarre, something that to me was beyond harrowing- beyond frightening. My head snapped backward, one of my arms circled in some kind of ghastly, horrendous, disgusting motion. I had no idea what sick idea of satisfaction that was to anyone. My legs walked, a crooked, unnatural motion- toward a chair. A chair with ropes on it.

    A girl''s voice spoke, once more. I was, at that point, unsure if it was Charlotte Miller, or if it was some other girl, perhaps even Kaylee. Whoever it was, she was yelling at me like her life depended on it; the voice was screaming at me.

    "Don''t follow them!" it said.

    "Don''t let him turn you into another one of him," said another voice- one I recognized.

    I shut my eyes from the blood and brutalness, from the morbidness, the violence.

    That other, second voice, was my own.

    Then a third voice rang out, the voice of the man behind the glass. The man with the fedora.

    He always wore a belt. He always wore the buttoned kind of shirt. Sometimes, he wore a tie. Occasionally, a suit.

    Not the first abuser I''d come across, and not the first by a long, long, long shot. But at that time, the man who I could not sleep with... but the only one I could sleep with. No other bed was warmer.

    Because there was no other bed.

    "Welcome to my mind, telepath!" the man said to me. I didn''t know if he was proud of it or just happy to be able to manipulate me like he always did. It was almost as though I could even hear him grinning. "Dance with me!"

    I stared at the razor blade in my hand, and looked at Charlotte. She was there, still. In front of me, almost protecting me- as though she were some kind of invisible wall from the many mutilated, headless, broken cadavers and skeletons, which still moved; eerie marionettes, just calling me, begging to make me join them, and begging to make me become just another one of them. But they stopped pursuit wherever she stood.

    Had I only known what they were going to do...

    She looked at me and I looked back; I was ready to fight to survive again and yet I was done. This girl, who was no older than I was, no better and no worse than I- was killed. Lifeless. Because of a decision that I made. I knew her shoulders were dislocated or broken, I knew she was choked to her death- but I also knew she was dead and so I did what would no longer hurt her: I wrapped my arms around her. I sobbed, I remember speaking my next words with only heartache, desolation, despair, as my arms held on to her broken body. But she spoke first.

    "I don''t have much time," the girl said, parts of her body- her fingers, her wrists, parts of her face- slowly deteriorating, turning to dust, falling off and simply being blown away as though she was evaporating into some nonexistent wind.

    "I''m sorry," I said, as I sobbed, into her broken shoulder and into her face which was slowly, slowly vanishing, "I''m sorry," I repeated, and then again, "I''m sorry I couldn''t save you." Now, she wasn''t the one who was choking, I was. Though I wasn''t taking her pain, or desperately trying to free myself from a choking tangle of torture. "I didn''t mean to-"

    "Well, now you need to save yourself," she interrupted. "Do it for us," she said. "For all of us."

    "For all of who?"

    She smiled at me, before she vanished.

    "Goodbye, Danny."

    "For all of who?!"

    Kaylee''s voice.

    "For all of the good out there, Danny. We have a lot to make right. Grab that handle," she said.

    Tangleweed, stringweed, Kaylee''s whipvine, poison Welwitschia arrows were flying all around me as Kaylee defended me from our ex-fellow survivors. They were now all mutated. At the time, I didn''t know that all the greenery that was defending me was actually Kaylee''s work. At the time, I didn''t really understand our powers, or even telepathy. I still don''t, but as far as the plants attacking for us, it didn''t take too long for me to pick up on what was happening. She looked at me- her brown hair a mess just like I was- and then nodded toward some sort of blue lever, with a white flashing light, far away and mounted high up on one of the cavern-type walls.

    The other voice came back. The evil one.

    From the man up above us, we heard his laugh, again- though perhaps one percent less threatening now that my mind had cleared from whatever mind control or whatever poison, or both, he had put me under. And, slowly, his laugh started to bother me less and less.

    "Did you have fun dancing for me, Danny boy?!" He laughed, a mad, depraved, immoral laugh. But not too unlike the laughter of some from the Lowdown. "Come on, dance for me!"

    I shook my head, and as I felt the coldest shiver- colder than anything that the human imagination can possibly even conceive- run through me, I remember I had one thought.

    Kaylee read it; perhaps the man did, too- but I spoke it aloud.

    "I will not dance for a devil."

    --ovw--XXXVIII--ovw--

    I shook my head, and as I felt the coldest shiver- colder than anything that the human imagination can possibly even conceive- run through me, I remember I had one thought.

    Kaylee read it; perhaps the man did, too- but I spoke it aloud.

    "I will not dance for a devil."

    Nightingale

    Day #16

    Subprocedure Twenty

    I will not dance for a devil.

    My eyes hyperfocused on that blinking white light.

    One of our ex-survivors, a boy now mutated and completely brainwashed, spit some kind of acid at me- it was a projectile spray that I just barely avoided by swinging off of an exposed brass pipe of some kind, attached on to one of the pillars in the hippodrome.

    That was when the pipe burst, searing off the entire fingernail off my little finger and about half of my left hand.

    Some of my skin was still on fire. I tried extinguishing it by waving my hand freely as I ran toward the lever at full speed- but it didn''t work. It burned into my flesh, burned deeper and deeper until tears sprung from my eyes and I wanted to beg our kidnappers and torturers to stop, to beg them for mercy and cry; to tell them just I wanted to go home.

    Even if "home" just meant being prostituted, and/or being surrounded by abuse, or drugs.

    I also knew, that if I did that, and got on my knees, begging while very clearly showing that I was in an atrocious and immense amount of pain,

    1) That would very likely would only give the man above me a hard-on,

    and

    2) I''d just be admitting weakness, which I generally was okay with, unless I knew- such as in this case- knew that the person I was exposing weakness to or vulnerability to would only use it to later harm me and manipulate me.

    It was day sixteen, but I read him from day one.

    One of my abilities: read people without the mind reading.

    Though eventually I got mind reading, too.

    Besides, he''d hurt me enough- and would keep hurting me. No need to give him any more leverage over me if I didn''t have to.

    The burning was unnatural; unnaturally painful.

    In a moment of sheer insanity and desperation combined, I used the razor blade given to me earlier to rip the skin straight off my hand- the skin that was on fire, the skin that burned.

    But what happened next was almost as unanticipated as what happened with Charlotte Miller- and was not nearly as painful as I''d thought or expected.

    Upon contact with my burning skin, the razor blade morphed- MORPHED- into some kind of gold substance, gold-colored, almost like a liquid metal or steel or something, combining itself with the fire and then molding itself back onto my flesh. The gleaming, lustrous transformation was mesmerizing to me.

    Maybe a little too mesmerizing, because I was still staring at my scarred, but now un-bleeding hand, when a girl from school grabbed me by the leg, pulling me off my standing position. I almost didn''t even notice because while I wasn''t bleeding anymore, there was still some kind of burning sensation in my hand; I couldn''t make sense of it. She grabbed my calf with both hands and simultaneously someone behind me grabbed my right arm- and someone else punched me in the nose, hard. Blood instantly poured down off my face and onto the floor.

    I was wrong- it wasn''t three people, it was the same girl.

    But clones of the same girl.

    Up until that point, I''d heard of "double-teaming" only from books or from magazines that talked about video games I''d never played.

    Totally freaked out by the fact that one of the school bullies was now not only about twice my size but now also three or maybe even four times more powerful, given that there wasn''t just one of her, I started wildly flailing about like a cat (or a clownfish) tossed into water (or maybe out of water if you''re thinking the clownfish?).

    Without really meaning to, my left fist collided into her jaw- at least the jaw of the clone behind me, who had punched my nose earlier- and the next moment I was on the ground and the clones were gone, it was just me and this big girl that picked on mostly girls and also sometimes boys like me, saying that we were "too pretty" and threatening to steal my nonexistent lunch money.

    If I think about it, she wasn''t that different from Wyatt.

    With my right hand I pinched the flow of blood shut, from the bridge of my nose- not exactly caring much to defend myself at that moment as Kaylee, at least in my eyes, was doing a pretty good job with the Plants vs. Semi-zombies, and this girl in front of me was busy making these really, really weird zombie groaning noises, both her hands pressed to her face.

    I remember thinking there was no way I''d hit her that hard. I was tiny. I still am. At that age I was, what? 78 pounds? Maybe even less?

    "I-" I said. "I''m..." I slowly turned to run back again, and then find my way toward that flashing light- "I''m really sorry. I mean if I hurt your teeth, you broke mine and other people did, too, so they''re really fucked now-"

    I''d have continued, but she got up from her half-crouched position to put hands on me again. This time, not really knowing how she''d clone up or attack me, I let her throw her now-slightly-predictable punch to my face as I did a very simple sidestep to my right and and aimed my left fist where I taught myself to aim, if I could reach it: the solar plexus. I''d have gone for the groin- I do that, too, sometimes- but I knew that would have taken just a fraction of a second longer to land and make contact, given the sidestep, and given the body position she was in as well as mine.

    And I''m pretty sure those weren''t necessarily as effective on girls anyway. Not that I was assuming her gender or anything.

    ...I think.

    But the minute my fist landed, exactly where I''d calculated, she puked on me.

    It was so gross.

    And then she started flailing around- kinda like I did but definitely much more clownfish there than cat, in my humble opinion- and then she started... maybe swearing? She had a Southern U.S. accent similar to Kaylee and Henry''s- only maybe thicker. And at that point, almost zombified after the minor experimentations. I wouldn''t want to know what she was swearing about or how, anyway.

    I was surprised again. I didn''t think I''d hurt her that bad. Not even close.

    I performed a triple-front-handspring towards my destination not because it was less tiring- it wasn''t any less tiring- but because to me it was more practical; I''d always relied more on momentum and swing rather than weight and muscle given my body type, something I learned which in my experience, was a big part of the reason I was still alive.

    Only this time- it wasn''t tiring at all. I wondered if it was, perhaps, just the adrenaline, or perhaps whatever took place there with my left hand; the scar and the burning? Did that have something to do with it? I didn''t stop at triple, some kind of muscle memory combined with my intuition told me to keep going, and so I adjusted trajectory, with Kaylee and her Welwitschia arrows- which I eventually just started calling "arrowvines"- still around me and flying in perfect arcs. She was a sharpshooter, and that wasn''t something I ever learned about her from partnering up with her in science class.

    And a moment later, I learned I was a sharpshooter, too.

    Still flipping, I calculated what line and what distance I needed to hit at least a foot below that mounted lever- the "handle" Kaylee told me to grab on to earlier- and, switching from forward to backwards with the stepout-to-roundoff to whip to back handspring, and back again to forward, using the whip with half-turn, I launched into an accidental skill I''d end up using not only in Nightingale but also when taking down abusers and criminals when I worked in the U.S.- my triple twisting front layout in, pike out.

    But I didn''t hit at least a foot below that lever. The flashing white light was at least thirty feet below me when I came out of the pike position. Only a yard away from the wall, I twisted, with my arms flared out to slow the spin, as I- seemingly in slow motion- descended onto that lever delicately, like a sweet pea flower petal made of cotton, hitting the grass but while spinning and yet still without making a sound.

    I touched the lever, wrapped my left hand on it as I went down. It caught flame for some reason upon contact with my hand- as bright white lights from the ceiling far above us all turned on at once.

    Neither Kaylee nor I looked behind us. We both waited still, standing like statues, until we were collected for the night. We both always refused to look behind us, wherever we were in whatever experiment or procedure they decided to perform on us on whatever day of that three-month child torture. Neither of us wanted to see the injured or the bodies; neither of us wanted to see who we hadn''t killed, and who we had killed.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XXXIX--ovw--

    Neither Kaylee nor I looked behind us. We both waited still, standing like statues, until we were collected for the night. We both always refused to look behind us, wherever we were in whatever experiment or procedure they decided to perform on us on whatever day of that three-month child torture. Neither of us wanted to see the injured or the bodies; neither of us wanted to see who we hadn''t killed, and who we had killed.

    MONDAY

    8:47 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    Leaves and snow fell and swirled around me. They seemed to be almost spinning; they seemed to be ablaze. I didn''t know if I was dizzy- from perhaps the loss of blood or hunger or fear. Or it was confetti, confetti to decorate the brutality of one more terror-ridden flashback nightmare; frills to ornament the show. Frills to ornament the horrible memories. I couldn''t afford to freeze, and so, my hands weren''t idle.

    My blood- a familiar dark color- was not the first thing I noticed as I pulled as hard as I humanly could.

    What I noticed first was the unusual trembling of my fingers. And I thought, probably it was just my PTSD- memories of rapes or abuse or Nightingale; or that combined with the fact that all I ate for an entire week of worthlessness was a few pieces of toast.

    Well, at least it was French toast, I remember thinking to myself. Yummy bread.

    Hurray.

    I heard myself make some kind of whimper, like pain was something I wasn''t accustomed to. And I would''ve been right- I never was accustomed to it; never got accustomed to it- it just hurt me every single time.

    I grunted, and moaned, the flesh under my skin shifting like plates under the earth''s surface before the earthquake; like the surgery done to my bones without the knockout.

    "This is really not the best remedy for a starving self-taught gymnast with an already-existing self-harm condition!" I yelled, not at the Talon, and not at anyone else in particular- just at myself; through my imperfect and gritted teeth. It was, to me, what seemed like another moment of terror and/or anger not unlike the ones from Nightingale- almost like I didn''t choose to speak; I just heard the words. "Especially not a tiny five-foot-three one who doesn''t even have a full rings routine!" I kept pulling, harder- and harder and harder. I remember in that moment, songs that I wrote filled my head; not because they were pretty, but because most of them matched the situation- and also, because most of them were my only solace from the tortures of the past. "And hasn''t even competed!" My own voice, which always sounded like what a marshmallow would sound like if it sang, seemed to lower itself to whisper, after several more groans of pain- horrendous and morbid groans mixed with breathy, dainty, nervous laughter. "Since when, exactly, were sharp objects so hard to come by-"

    The enormous Talon man''s axe blade- the one I had zero chance of lifting- buried itself in the ground next to me, only two inches away from my hand.

    Instinctively I jumped up and threw a backwards handspring, to a back with a full- but landing only on one leg after.

    He was back. Though it could have been only my imagination, his eyes weren''t as deep as the red color that I remembered from only minutes ago. I''d been staring at my blood too much, perhaps; the hues of fresh- and raw, and hot- human hemoglobin.

    Though I do remember not having even enough hemoglobin at times, during my days in the Lowdown and sometimes even after that. Things got a bit better, after becoming friends with Tiana and her family.

    "Do you..." I said, my voice shaking like a leaf rustling in the wind. A leaf made of soft marshmallow. "Do you speak words?"

    Ugh. Such intelligence, such acumen, such genius- amazing dialogue choice, right? Do you speak WORDS. Why I spoke at all, I''ll never know. I started doing these small little hops backward, on one leg. I swung both my arms and threw another backwards handspring, onto one leg. My head and chest were only just rising back into the standing position- when I heard a voice speak.

    "He won''t speak to you, Midnight."

    --ovw--XL--ovw--

    Ugh. Such intelligence, such acumen, such genius- amazing dialogue choice, right? Do you speak WORDS. Why I spoke at all, I''ll never know. I started doing these small little hops backward, on one leg. I swung both my arms and threw another backwards handspring, onto one leg. My head and chest were only just rising back into the standing position- when I heard a voice speak.

    "He won''t speak to you, Midnight."

    MONDAY

    8:49 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    I snapped to an upright position, my head looking forward and my eyes scanning the Talon man''s face.

    Who just spoke?

    I looked around- no one, no one I could see at least.

    No one I could see, at least.

    My voice was almost that of a dying person''s. At least to me, it''s what it sounded like.

    "Connor?" I said, choked up, mewling like a wounded animal.

    A snowflake, emerald and turquoise, landed in my eye and I had to blink it away.

    The somewhat raspy, sleepy, Southern voice spoke again.

    "Bless yer heart, Christopher-"

    Connor.

    "Yes, yes, thank you," I responded, interrupting him. I took a breath. "Can you lecture me later?"

    "Ain''t no lecturing someone who flies away each time you talk to him," said Connor.

    Aimlessly, sloppily, I wiped blood off my nose and mouth; I examined the blood running down my calf. A wave of what seemed almost like diagonal, invisible gravity pushed me sideways; dizzy was an understatement for whatever it was I was feeling. Though the adrenaline running through me was enough to engage in one more fight, or maybe even a few- the burning fire inside my hands and feet told me so.

    "I''ll stay just for you," I said. "Just this time."

    We heard what sounded like the snapping of a tree.

    "Chris, what was that?" Kaylee''s voice, telepathically.

    "I''m alive and we have Connor," I said, both aloud and telepathically; heard by Connor and anyone connected to the telepath binding- including Kaylee and anyone else that cared.

    "You''ll excuse me," said Connor. He manifested like a ghost in a horror movie- from out of nowhere- right in front of me, his back to me and facing the Talon.

    "I dunno, Kayles," I replied. I sidestepped left to perform a spin, and throw hands at an airborne Talon which judging by its trajectory had aimed for Connor. As I twisted in the air, my left palm and right fist both made contact with the Talon''s upper body- their shoulder and their solar plexus. It cried out as both its wings fluttered and we both crashed into the ground. It started squawking, loudly, as I ignored the pain in my body- and twisted my way back to Connor, spinning back in one calculated arc of air. "I don''t know that it matters- where are you?!"

    "Silence, please!" Connor yelled, at both me and Kaylee. His thick accent particularly affected the word please. He composed himself enough to start making this strange, cawing noise; a cawing, combined with an unusual- yet also utterly amazing- series of rattles and coos and clicking intonations. The sounds were so incongruous, so alien as to be almost frightening, to me at least. I started thinking that possibly I''d run away, if I was the only one still there. I listened to more low, gurgling croaks, in combination with these harsh, grating vocalizations- a cacophony so irregular, and one that I wasn''t sure how many people were capable of making, or even imitating. I stood there unmoving, as Connor''s neon blue, semi-invisible, twiggy and long whiskers swayed in the wind, swayed with the snow.

    Connor Meadows: He hated almost all animals, but could communicate with most of them if he chose to.

    The Talon man spoke back, in this uproar, in this dissonance of a language that I could only hope to ever master.

    Not that I really wanted to.

    Kaylee- breathless and wheezing, a bow and her arrowvines, poison anthurium bombs and tangleweed shells in all her fingers- materialized from behind us and stopped in her tracks a foot from where I stood. Her long brown hair fell in flawless waves over her right shoulder, her orange top soaked entirely in the green snow, and also probably with sweat. She crouched down to put her hands near the mutated shard of wood- not near enough to touch but near enough to manipulate. I didn''t look down to see how exactly she was fixing the problem; I trusted her, and my heightened situational awareness was needed elsewhere.

    "Chris," said Connor cautiously- his tone only a slightly lower version of the rasping treble which was his normal voice- "no sudden movements."

    "No shit, Connor."

    "What do they want?" whispered Kaylee.

    "He said," Connor hesitated, before saying, "that they recognize you."

    --ovw--XLI--ovw--

    "He said," Connor hesitated, before saying, "that they recognize you."

    MONDAY

    8:54 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    I pointed at my chest, a look of confusion on my face, and then pointed at Kaylee.

    Connor gave me a look.

    "You, you dummy!"

    "Me?" I said.

    "Yes, you!"

    I felt Kaylee wrapping something rough but not unpleasant over and around the wound. Probably stielvine, also known as healervine or settlevine to us- which was the magical mutation of a plant we discovered she could create from our days back at the experiment together; slightly rough leaflike canvas that worked as bandages, and allowed cuts or bruises to heal faster than wounds usually do, if covered correctly under its chloroplasts.

    And I remember thinking:

    How many things were going to not make sense that day?

    "Okay?" I said like a question- a question that probably wasn''t going to have any answers to it, either- "What do we do about it?"

    The Talon man, his eyes a shade of what looked like pink now, continued his little soliloquy- or should I say continued the dialogue- while I tested the weight on my leg, subtly shifting weight from one foot to the other, and back and forth, and back again.

    "Chris."

    "Yes, Meadows."

    "He said you look like someone who tested on them, some years ago. He''ll leave you alone, and the rest of his family will, too. But not the entire murder of crows."

    "Talon," I corrected him. Because whatever they were, they weren''t crows.

    And... tested on them?

    "Can you tell him that two of the three people in front of him are Nightingale survivors? Can you tell him that?" I said, a small degree of anger starting to flare up inside of me. "Because there''s no need for any experiment survivors, to be warring with fellow survivors, in my opinion."

    Kaylee snorted beside me.

    "As if that wasn''t obvious," she uttered.

    "Do I look like the kind to run an experiment?" I hissed.

    I was ready to puke- and then I actually did, whatever French toast was in my stomach spilling like projectile water fountain rays of bile and sugar and electrolytes onto the ground next to me, away from me and Kaylee and Connor.

    "Ugh," I moaned. "Ugh. Ugh, so gross."

    Small yellow flowers and weeds grew where I puked and absorbed the mess until it disappeared entirely.

    Anyway.

    "Me?" I said. "Test on them, run an experiment."

    To say I was indignant was probably an understatement.

    The Talon man turned to leave, without taking the blade of his axe.

    "Hey!" I yelled. "HEY!"

    The Talon man turned to look, and I pointed at the axe.

    He walked over, picked it up, made some kind of eye contact with me, and then flew away. About a dozen or so of the other Talon did the same.

    The snow had lightened somewhat, the sky turning subtly from emerald and blue to something that resembled a light lilac. Cute. But I didn''t know if the fighting was over.

    Spoiler alert: It wasn''t.

    I watched the dark purple wings become smaller, and eventually fade into the dull lilac of the cloudy Overwoods sky. Some of the clouds were still green or turquoise. Overcast, barely a ray of sunlight.

    "Connor," I said.

    "What?"

    "I know he told you more," I quipped. "Other things."

    "Yeah," he said. "But we''ll talk about that later."

    Fair enough.

    "Do you really want to know?" remarked Kaylee. "I wouldn''t!"

    Life in the Overwoods, at its finest. Experiment survivors'' lives at their best.

    "No," I responded. "I don''t want to know. But the information might be useful."

    "JOINING THE PARTY!" bellowed a loud and somewhat obnoxious Vicinity Four accented voice, a hundred yards to our right- Sam, vaulting over a broken drill rig and zooming past it and right to us, past the abandoned equipment and the blood and the trees and the wreckage. The minute she materialized in front of us, she offered me a set of small, black blades- my throwing knives.

    "I''m not killing them," I said.

    "Fine," she said with a shrug. "I will."

    A caw- or a squawk, I didn''t know which, louder than even Sam''s voice- rang out from the middle of the not-exactly-depleted horde.

    An unkindness of ravens- maddened, malevolent, and deranged ravens- the remaining Talon either charged at us or took to the air, wings and feathers of dark purple or black or occasionally red fluttering furiously in the air toward us.

    "Tango Echo Delta," grumbled Kaylee, fitting five different arrowvines into the string of her ironwood bow.

    "Uh huh," I agreed.

    "No problem by me!" trilled Sam, putting my knives into a leather holder and then stuffing it into my back jeans pocket for me without my request.

    Tango Echo Delta was one of many commands Kaylee made herself as she secretly worked in the Union of Stars, often with me.

    As Connor disappeared in front of our eyes, and Sam popped a pill, swallowing it dry- something she did a lot; something I had learned to do back in Nightingale and therefore could never imagine myself doing again- and then zoomed ahead of us to throw her fists at the first Talon she could come into contact with, wet snow still on the bandages on her shoulder, and as Kaylee slowly adjusted herself on one knee, aiming up at the airborne; the Talon now swooping over us- movement caught my eye.

    I felt some degree of alarm for only a few moments, because I understood immediately.

    Several hundred feet to our left and behind us- coming in fast. Coming in hot.

    Literally hot.

    Seemingly at first a flash of white- and then, a blazing, burning flash of white. I smiled when I saw Happy just riding on top of him, mini-apples in his paws just waiting to be consumed. There, running through the trees, leaping through the foliage to get to me. Burning the empty air in front of him in apparent excitement. Jupiter Two.

    "Thank God," I uttered, shaking my head, feeling both disbelief and recognition. And then, indebtedness; gratitude. "I was starving."

    One of the Talon hit the ground hard right next to me and squawked- a female by the looks of her, I guessed- her face and arms and wings covered in tangleweed. Dark purple feathers drifted with the snow. I stepped back to politely allow her the space to thrash around.

    As I flexed the fingers in both my hands- and adjusted the wet cotton bandages on the left one- I knew someone was going to be visiting the forests around V8 for miracle apples soon. I adjusted my dirty, bloody green jacket, pulling it up, tucked in my bloody red shirt, reached down to straighten by blood-soaked black jeans- and barely whispered the words; sent them to him from miles and miles away. "Thanks, Ember."

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XLII--ovw--

    As I flexed the fingers in both my hands- and adjusted the wet cotton bandages on the left one- I knew someone was going to be visiting the forests around V8 for miracle apples soon. I adjusted my dirty, bloody green jacket, pulling it up, tucked in my bloody red shirt, reached down to straighten by blood-soaked black jeans- and barely whispered the words; sent them to him from miles and miles away. "Thanks, Ember."

    Nightingale

    Day #45

    Subprocedure Nine

    "Tell me you miss me."

    The woman in front of me was blond. I remember because one side of her face was almost totally covered by it. The other half was scarred; her cheek and her neck both had red marks on them, and blood.

    So did mine.

    I said nothing. Whoever this person was, it did not matter. Were they worth a response, no one knows.

    She was, of course, taller than I was- as most people were- her eyes blue; both of them tinted a shade of red mixed with violet, from whatever chemicals were on her. In each of her hands she held jagged, curved, asymmetrical shards of what looked like brown glass; her breath... it smelled terribly.

    Smelled terribly of alcohol.

    My head spun. The smell... and something else.

    I didn''t know why exactly, but for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere but near whoever this person was. I took a step back, and then, when I did, my shoulders and head immediately bounced off of what felt like a human body. If I think about it now, I''m not sure if it really was fear that I felt.

    Fear, or revulsion.

    Subtly, I shifted my bare feet on the floor, sliding them across the smooth surface. Tile, some kind of scarlet color; some of them were a slightly lighter shade of deep red, some darker. Cold, like the rest of the room. Or at least at that moment it was. This was what it felt like:

    I had no memories; no context, no awareness except for what felt like fabric pressed against my back and my feet. It was soft. Velour and velveteen, but it wasn''t there. I felt it and yet, it wasn''t something I could put hands on- because it wasn''t there. Or maybe it was somehow invisible? Even now, I don''t really remember which room I was in. With my less damaged hand- my right one- I probed the ankles, the bridges, and the arches of my feet, or as much as I could, at least- because that was a feat as close to impossible as it could possibly get. I touched my back, which was a bit easier. Nothing. There were blue lights in the room- blue mixed with white. Was it antiseptic in the air, mixed with the liquor breath? I didn''t know.

    This was all that I could remember. My hands- they were tied. The rope I actually can, and I do, remember. It was black, and it was tied tight; much too tight. And I was, yet again, gagged. At that minute, it felt like the first time something abhorrent was in my mouth- something that I just didn''t want there. No, it wasn''t the first time. Not by a horrendously long shot; not in the least, not in any way.

    I shut my eyes.

    --ovw--

    I didn''t know how long my eyes were closed for; I also don''t remember even opening them- but then they were open, or it seemed. Bats flew above us. There were five of us; I was the only child in the room. Were they bats, or were they just shadows? Shadows which blended, almost perfectly, with the backdrop? Because, apart from the polychromatic, deep crimson and scarlet floor of different hues, this room was black.

    Somehow, I was more comfortable that way. A dark black room was less likely to show me horrors I didn''t have to know.

    But, of course, it was already too late then, anyway.

    The contraption on my mouth loosened, and fell to the red tile floor with a loud clack. It was covered heavily in spit, and covered even more heavily in blood. The blond woman didn''t go anywhere; there she was, in front of me. Not speaking, but looking at me as though there was something she wanted to say. I didn''t care to know what it was. I turned around, and I was right; a body was behind me. It wasn''t a dead one. Instead, it was the man who sought me out often during this experiment.

    It was a fair deal. He got what he wanted, I got a warm bed. He got what he wanted, I didn''t starve. As if the Lowdown wasn''t bad enough. Yet at the same time, he was still kinder than most of the people I''d had to... had to eff with. Literally...

    I can''t even say that word sometimes.

    I almost liked him, in some ways. Until the tortures began.

    When the only source of comfort seems to come from the thing that hurts you-

    You just... you don''t know, sometimes.

    I felt something, something grasping at my head; at my mind. To this day I don''t know what it was. Sometimes, I assume it was myself, my self, reaching out to me- telling me that something was wrong and that whatever I was feeling was a feeling that I was programmed to feel.

    To justify what it was. Conditioning.

    See, grooming was one thing. Brainwashing was another.

    I swallowed spit and blood, and the forced chemicals that still remained on both my tongue as well as the roof of my mouth, and attempted to clear my throat. Of course, it ended up only sounding like a very soft whimper.

    I took one deep breath, and then spoke.

    "Are you ever gonna tell me what your name is?" I said.

    The man smiled at me. Dark, reddish stubble, most of everything else covered by the mask.

    "Jeff," he said.

    My mind was, to say the least, cloudy. They''d injected me five times already that day, and that didn''t include all of the substances that they made us swallow.

    --ovw--XLIII--ovw--

    My mind was, to say the least, cloudy. They''d injected me five times already that day, and that didn''t include all of the substances that they made us swallow.

    Nightingale

    Day #45

    Subprocedure Nine

    Jeff.

    Jeff- just like one of my social studies teachers, in that one school that I used to go to for a little while. Jeff. Like one of my old classmates, Jeffery Locklear; like Jefferson Smith who worked research and analysis, at one of those desks, at the Webwork; closer to the ground floor, just above the parking spaces. I remembered that one teacher, at that one school. Jeff. Before that school blew up; before he and all of the others died of exposure to actinides and the air pollution which proved to be deadly; pathogens and chemicals gone way out of control. It was just one of the reasons I didn''t play with substances.

    I crawled out of that rubble and felt nothing. There were only two ambulances for that entire school of hundreds of filthy dead bodies, because it was the Lowdown. That was before Nightingale. I''d say I felt sorry for them; I can''t. Half of them were part of a child trafficking ring. I''m the one that finally brought them down.

    I didn''t kill unless I had to- and I didn''t. I just shut them down.

    "I''m sure you could be a really great person, Jeff," I said. "And you probably were, once." I coughed blood, almost on his pants- until this blood was stopped in mid-air by an invisible screen. I wiped the remaining blood off my mouth with my less damaged hand. "Jeff, why do you hurt people?"

    His smile faded. I, of course, was not sure what expression his eyes wore, when he said anything. I was a master at reading people for the most part. But it was taking all of my cognitive capacity just to look at him. Jeff tucked his shirt collar, even though it was perfectly in place, and then he answered.

    "It''s all I know."

    "Is it?"

    Clouds of vapor, a mist of some dark black substance- not unlike the smoke that frequently came out of the mouths of Connor or James or Chaquille or Belinda or sometimes Sam, perhaps just without that same salty, poisoned, toxoid pungency- and yet still poison nonetheless, seemed to slowly distil itself, from the invisible walls to both my right and my left.

    The air... the very air around me started to wrap around my neck. That''s what it felt like. Compactly, crampedly. The veins and the skin on my neck actually receded; moved inward, closer and closer, to the back of my spine. It was not the hands of someone bigger than I was wrapping tightly around my neck, not the exact same thing as what I knew I''d already experienced on numerous occasions- and yet in that moment somehow couldn''t remember from where or from who exactly- but the tightness had to come from somewhere. Was it the poison? Was it something that they''d forced into my body? Was I suffocating to death and just didn''t know it?

    Did I care?

    I smiled back at him. That''s how cloudy and foggy it was in my head- I truly believed that he was killing me, because he cared, because he wanted my pain to end.

    And I was grateful.

    For all of the poisons this man injected into me, it was somehow still hard for me to even imagine- imagine that he was one-hundred percent, absolute, sheer, complete, pure evil, and nothing else. In that moment, it just didn''t feel that way. Sometimes, it still doesn''t. Strange as it might sound, especially now, at the time I felt almost as though I knew him somehow. From... somewhere.

    As if I was the one that failed to save him somehow. Something tugged at my mind again. Was I being brainwashed?

    I snapped out of it. I was twelve; whatever situation it might have been- how is the child expected to save the 200-pound Caucasian adult male?

    The sluggishness, the lethargy, the fog. The literal fog and also the mist in my head. It wasn''t totally unwelcome. It dulled the pain. The bones in my left hand were still fractured. I noticed the tears in my eyes, but felt less pain.

    Four invisible walls. To my left, right, in front and behind me. The first thing I felt I can''t describe- not in the way I''d like to.

    As the walls around me sprayed chemicals at me, my skin- from top to toe- started to turn blue. I wasn''t cold. The shade of blue was exactly that of that cute stuffed animal- a smiling, huggable, soft, blue shark- that I saw once at the toy store, but never ever could afford then. I didn''t even believe that I ever would get to afford one. I wanted one so badly. It was an adorable stuffed animal, white and light blue and dark blue and gray. I went inside just to touch it. It was soft, like the only pillow that I had at the time.

    "Jeff," I said, robotically, like I wasn''t there; like I was a puppet manipulated by every microorganism, every toxin, every virus, every synthetic compound, every hydrocarbon they had injected into us. "What is it that you want from me now?"

    My skin, light blue now turned to dark blue from the strange black mist, started to produce little red holes. Blood- but not just blood- started to ooze, seep out from every single one of them. Little tentacles- black, small, like jellyfish tentacles, cuttlefish tentacles, snail tentacles- grew from all of them.

    Jeff spoke again.

    "I want to try to see if you can acquire this new superpower that we''ve created."

    I reached for the ground, on my knees, tried to steady myself in the very limited way that I could manage- trying desperately, so desperately, to not heave. Despite that there were cupfuls, vialfuls, wine-glassfuls and beakerfuls they''d forced into me- the one slice of bread they let me have that morning was in there swimming with all of the poisons. The amount of starvation I''d been put through was too much; just too much- I was done with it, done with hunger and dehydration and thirst.

    --ovw--XLIV--ovw--

    The amount of starvation I''d been put through was too much; just too much- I was done with it, done with hunger and dehydration and thirst.

    Nightingale

    Day #45

    Subprocedure Nine

    "Who..." I said, then gripping my own neck with my right hand, thinking that just maybe that would somehow help, "...who is ''we?!'' Stop, just stop this, PLEASE!" Please? Please was not a word even remotely strong enough to convey how much; just how much I was begging for it to end. I''d seen a lot of ugly stuff, but this was somehow still something else entirely.

    Or it felt like it. At the end of the day, abuse was abuse; abusers were made of the same garbage they try to inflict upon others.

    I cried out like a drunk hardcore metal band vocalist on fentanyl, the horror of the entire situation gripping me cold like an ice-covered vise. But... but what else would I have said? I didn''t really know anymore, did I? "Please! I... I don''t have anything you want. I have NOTHING that you want, I don''t." I remember hearing shards of glass grind together, the sound of thin ice cracking, the sound of smoke obscuring my every view of anything I ever wanted to look at and sounding like a cathedral orchestra composed of criminals screaming out lies and nonsense and insanity. "Kill me now, please, just do it."

    I vomited, blood, and acids, and the cup of yellow crushed pills they forced me to swallow the half hour earlier. It tasted exactly the same going back up: bitter, more bitter than any poison I''d ever imagined. The aftertaste a sour and unpleasant and chilling sensation, before it transitioned into the annihilating headaches and shaking hands and sweating from too much invisible warmth and heat, moments afterwards. The vomit on the floor had tentacles on them. Little black protruding arms and feelers and limbs. Everywhere. My arms and legs, my neck, my tongue. The woman behind my was sobbing, sobbing as though her family had all died, but I didn''t know why.

    "Just let him go!" her voice screamed. And then, she returned to sobbing.

    "I..." I choked down the grit and bile and poisons, and repeated, "I... I don''t want a new superpower. Please. Please."

    "You know," Jeff said, "If I don''t do this test on you... I''ll do this to Davenport instead."

    "I''ll take it," said a voice, female, young, a powerful telepathic voice.

    Kaylee''s.

    The small tentacles started to come out of my mouth, working their way up through my throat. They were still small, still thin- but slowly, slowly growing longer, subtly.

    Now, now was a good time to die.

    Now was a good time to die

    die

    die

    This was all I thought to myself.

    This was all that I could think.

    "Please!" my own voice screamed of its own volition- and it was a death scream; it was the scream that only a child could make, trembling from one vocal cord, shaking like a fast five-note run from one microscopic part of the larynx to the other to the other and out through the mouth. "Stop-" I don''t remember choosing to speak. It was like it just happened. "Stop, please."

    There was more sobbing now, though, I think some of it was mine.

    die

    die

    "I know you can HEAR ME!" screamed Kaylee''s telepathic voice again. "Experiment on me, do it TO ME!"

    Sobs from the woman standing behind me.

    Kaylee screamed again, and again, and again, and again.

    die

    die

    die

    die

    die...

    This was all that I thought, until the woman standing behind me ran, ran around and behind Jeff, but not to do what I had hoped- at least attempt to stop him; she ran to a spinning contraption, almost like an exhaust fan- a windmill of some sort- and it blew powerfully, strong currents of air, probably a hundred thousand rotations per minute, or something. I saw this from how her hair blew back from her face, when she shoved her face into it and her blood flew and splattered all over the left and side and front of the impenetrable, transparent glass or plastic or acrylic box that Jeff had me trapped in, with handfuls of wisps of her hair or her tongue or nose cartilage or eyeballs. Her hands, which gripped the broken glass pieces, uncurled as her body slowly, slowly toppled forward, and then slid to the floor, like a very heavy rag doll. The blood poured out like a melted candy bar, in a wrapper broken open by ants, languidly, one pint at a time- from her totally washed, defaced head. As her hands uncurled, I was able to fully see what she held in one of them; in the one hand that I could see from my side. A shard of glass, and... and another thing. Something else; something that took me a moment to fully recognize. It seemed almost vaguely familiar, as my memories returned to me and as my mind returned to me; like a the heart being returned to a small broken body that needs a heart; needs a heart to see, to breathe. As the black fog slowly vanished, and as the walls- two into the floor, and two into the ceiling- retracted, and as the tiny, sinister, upsetting, disturbing limbs and arms and tentacles consumed the blood that oozed from the holes that simply rotted onto my skin from the outside, I understood what it was; it was a contraption- one of the contraptions that the torturers forced into the skin and onto the bones of my left hand.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XLV--ovw--

    As the black fog slowly vanished, and as the walls- two into the floor, and two into the ceiling- retracted, and as the tiny, sinister, upsetting, disturbing limbs and arms and tentacles consumed the blood that oozed from the holes that simply rotted onto my skin from the outside, I understood what it was; it was a contraption- one of the contraptions that the torturers forced into the skin and onto the bones of my left hand.

    Nightingale

    Day #45

    Subprocedure Nine

    As I laid there, on the floor, breathing pure fear and with water still streaming like a small faucet from both my eyes, I repeated myself.

    "Who is ''we?''" I said, not demanding but rather begging for an answer.

    Kaylee''s telepathic voice spoke to me, to me only.

    "The Union of Stars." It was a whisper.

    Just muddled thoughts, I spoke back- only mentally and only as though it were a dream- hoping she would answer, because Jeff wouldn''t.

    "But..." Even in my mind, I sobbed, into my hands, into the blood of the woman whose name I''ll never know. The blood that was on the floor but now on the hands that only people like Kaylee will see. And while I cried on the floor, I mentally spoke the next words.

    "But..." I said again, "...but they''re supposed to be the good guys."

    "It''s just some of them, Danny."

    About a dozen or so, men and women, men or women because really I didn''t know, wearing masks and gloves; scrubs or surgeon''s uniforms, or whatever they were called- swarmed in to put more chemicals into my small, underfed, malnourished, damaged, injured, and broken body.

    "We''ll just test it on someone a bit older than you," Jeff said.

    I didn''t know how I dared to say the words I spoke next.

    "That''s what you should have done to begin with," I said. I swallowed blood and then coughed it out again before I said, "If you even had to do it at all!"

    There was silence, as the torturers all stared at me for a moment- perhaps astonished at the fact that I spoke the words with all the conviction that I possibly could- at a man that could have me killed, or worse, at any time that he wanted.

    "There''s no one part of you," I said, "no one part of you that''s even human."

    He let me sleep in his bed that night, but he wasn''t there. If there was one night in Nightingale where I got anything even remotely close to a full night''s sleep... It was that one.

    --ovw--XLVI--ovw--

    He let me sleep in his bed that night, but he wasn''t there. If there was one night in Nightingale where I got anything even remotely close to a full night''s sleep... It was that one.

    MONDAY

    8:57 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    To me, the apple tasted... well, kind of more like an almost-tasteless pear, sprinkled with a little salt. The sky was a light purple; the crystal snowflakes still came down all around us. The sounds of Sam''s fist hitting bodies, and of Kaylee''s bowstring propelling five Welwitschia arrows every thirty seconds and the sound of them making contact, was almost a harmony to me as I munched on the crispy and crunchy fruits; with both Jupiter Two the Samoyed and Happy the raccoon munching on them with me, from the shade of a broken drill rig and also some giant sugar maple trees.

    Sam constantly hollered profanities at the Talon, who probably didn''t even understand her.

    "Chris-" Connor''s strangled voice, heavily accented as always, rang out from somewhere to my right. "A little help here?"

    I felt some degree of urgency, but in that moment even the adrenaline was taking a momentary break, it seemed. That, or I couldn''t see him. Probably both.

    I took another tiny little bite of the tiny little apple.

    "Can''t see you, Cognito," I said. "Maybe if you un-Cognito."

    I surveyed our surroundings.

    Wrapped, tangled, cut by leaves, stems, roots, and bark, about half the horde of fifty winged people-birds were now nothing but a mass of filthy bodies constantly humiliating themselves. On the other hand, Sam was having the time of her life.

    "C''MON!" She yelled at the horde in her eighty-percent V4, ten-percent U.S. Southern, ten-percent stimulant-junkie accent. "YO MAMA raise y''better than THIS, HEY?! YO SHIT WACK!" Her piercing and slightly raspy voice blasted at us as she proceeded to put a female Talon in a choke hold, and apparently proceeded to snap her neck.

    "We don''t need to kill them!" I yelled at her. "Sam! SAM!"

    "Y''all," a strangled voice said. "A little help."

    --ovw--XLVII--ovw--

    "Y''all," a strangled voice said. "A little help."

    MONDAY

    8:59 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    I turned around. There he was; Connor. Blue-and-brown hair and neon-blue whiskers and pale as a stick of chalk. The stranglehold the Talon man had on him from behind was not unlike the one Sam did to people, quite a lot- whether she was working or even just around Vicinity Four and getting into fights over drugs... or who effed who, or something.

    Still can''t say that word sometimes.

    I was in an SRA with her once, and literally just allowed her to knock me out with one blow. Afterward she bought me cold strawberry pudding from Baker Joe''s and brought it to me at the nurse''s clinic. Sam was always great to watch; to me she was the perfect blend of speed and power, the same thing that James said that I was to him.

    Not that James''s opinions made sense. Not that James''s opinions mattered.

    I sighed. "Stay here, okay?" I said, as I patted Jupiter Two''s big fluffy white head and gave the rest of my mini-healing-healer-happy-apples back to Happy. He took them in both his little paws and then climbed up a tree.

    I adjusted the cotton bandage on my left hand.

    "I am giving you a chance to stop," I said to the Talon man, "and I am also hoping that you are capable of understanding this."

    In response, he squawked at me, and then almost growled- except the growl sounded more like a loud, grating caw that sounded strangely like Sam to me.

    "Bless yer heart, Christopher Midnight-"

    "Uh huh."

    "Do something now, please!"

    His "please" was really funny when his accent was on it. And then it was also, like, "ple-e-ease" like he was singing, because of the stranglehold in addition to the accent.

    Or was it more like a standing rear naked choke, I wondered, a little bit? Or maybe some kind of standing triangle choke, like, from behind? Carter White, from the twenty-fourth floor, tried to teach me jiu jitsu once. I was really bad at it, in my opinion. I was helping Elsie out with a case and she was running late, so he and I went to one of the basement floors. B14. Because, of course, practically everybody in the Webwork knew it was my favorite. Until they fixed the training room in B21, anyway.

    Carter was really nice, he didn''t break any of my bones or anything. He knew my history and knew how much I hated any sort of thing of that nature at all, I supposed. But he taught me the straight armbar and the Americana armlock for non-lethal submissions. I once did use the armlock; it was on an identified murderer, to get him to drop his weapon. I''m actually not sure I''m did it exactly the right way, I mean, I did do it in connection from a whip to a hurricanrana- so maybe it was just another self-taught maneuver. Either way, I was still super thankful and let Carter give me a hug any time he saw me.

    The jiu jitsu lesson itself- I''m not really sure if I had liked it all that much. Maybe because I was small, and maybe also because I was really bothered by it, probably maybe because I was choked a lot before...

    And I mean, come on. Locked limbs with a large male who was twice my size, maybe more than twice even. At that time, at least, Caleb was the only exception.

    Of course, I almost said "NO" with capital metaphorical letters, a small and maybe shy smile, and then a single flip with two twists in the opposite direction- except deep down I knew Carter had a good heart; he genuinely was trying to help me, and, like most people who went out of their way to make time for me, was not only kind- knew how to do the right thing.

    --ovw--XLVIII--ovw--

    Of course, I almost said "NO" with capital metaphorical letters, a small and maybe shy smile, and then a single flip with two twists in the opposite direction- except deep down I knew Carter had a good heart; he genuinely was trying to help me, and, like most people who went out of their way to make time for me, was not only kind- knew how to do the right thing.

    MONDAY

    8:59 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    They say Windcreek used to be ruled by a king who started out as a peasant in a farm; a pig farmer.

    I felt every single snowflake and drop of cold blood on the skin of my left hand.

    --ovw--

    I pressed the middle fingers of both my hands to the tops of my ears. I just wished I had told him- Carter, that is- not to put hands around my neck, because he gave me nightmares for about... oh, I don''t know. Maybe just ten weeks. I''m so glad it was Carter and not Wyatt- because, probably, Wyatt would have just laughed; me having level-9,000-intensity PTSD nightmares for 2.5 weeks, and then 7.5 with slightly less intensity, all because of a planned scrap in an airconditioned environment with a fellow agent. It probably would just be funny to him. Right?

    I mentally ran through a list of suspects in my head.

    I mean, probably- he did think stealing someone''s lunch money was entertainment; was so comical, was such entertainment. Caleb took me home that day for dinner and then hacked into all of Wyatt''s video game platforms. Caleb sold all of his... like, rare legendary items, or something. "That doesn''t make anything right, you know," was what I had told him that night. It was 11 PM and I sat in front of their fireplace eating cereal. He told me that Kaylee would have done something even worse, and then wrapped his blanket around me.

    I wiped a snowflake off my left hand. And then, I wiped off a tear, before it had a chance to really fall anywhere- and shut my eyes.

    "Help."

    I snapped out of it, not because he said "help," but mainly because I remembered being choked as a small child a lot and it was really, really not nice.

    It was actually quite painful.

    Kaylee always took the time, and took the effort, to remind me that we were the two Nightingale survivors- the only ones. We have the powers, and the minds and emotional intelligence that come only with being the strongest of the strongest survivors. At least for the most part- we certainly weren''t perfect.

    I stepped back with my left foot, calculated line and distance- and went all out.

    This wasn''t a workout. But if my body was going to do something nice for someone that day, then hey, let''s flip.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--XLIX--ovw--

    This wasn''t a workout. But if my body was going to do something nice for someone that day, then hey, let''s flip.

    MONDAY

    8:59 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    Status: Unavailable

    I put my phone back in its pocket, and took one of the tiny, compact combat knives. I wasn''t intending to really use it, unless necessary.

    The light purple shade of the 9AM Overwoods sky spun, and glowed, like milky purple Taro bubble tea. The kind Kaylee and I were practically addicted to; I just didn''t buy as much because I cared about not spending funny crazy money.

    "You have about a second and a half to stop because I don''t believe in hurting anyone."

    Most of the time I didn''t, at least.

    Those wore the words I spoke as I took my first two steps.

    "Just..." Connor croaked, "...just stab him."

    No.

    Arms out, roundoff half turn, two whips, flip with three twists, full in back out back pike. With both my shoes now on top of the Talon''s large head, I twisted into my left for the quadruple twisting dismount- without trying to stick this time, because the heel of my left foot was going into this Talon''s left temple, near the left ear and impact swinging into his frontal and limbic lobe, and corpus callosum.

    Assuming Talons'' brains were the same as that of "normal humans," anyway.

    I felt the subtle gush of heat leave my body upon contact and out through my left foot. Connor broke free, spun around, and threw a punch to the Talon''s nose the millisecond the I front flipped over them both. On the half turn right before my landing, Connor dropkicked the large creature in both shins. And in that split moment right before the Talon toppled onto his knees, my right palm connected into the same temple I''d gone after earlier.

    There was no need to put this man in a submission lock. He wasn''t going to be walking for a week.

    Neither was I... probably.

    I backed up into Connor. Two more Talon- seemingly a male and a female, at least by the looks of them- approached us with weapons. One was flying and the other was running. Sam and Kaylee were occupied.

    I watched as the large bird-people-mutants brandished their weapons at us. Both were visible. Both were sharp and jagged.

    Connor, apparently, was otherwise occupied as well.

    I heard the sound of a blow behind me.

    "What are they holding?" Connor asked me.

    Other thoughts please other thoughts other thoughts other thoughts other thoughts

    I blinked away monsters and flashes of people larger than me holding pointed objects in the Lowdown. I shook off memories of blood puddles with gin vomit and of broken bodies and of bloodstains and alcohol stains.

    It''s fine, I have an apple in my pocket

    I win like that

    "A bear trap and a beer bottle?" I said, as I pocketed my one wielded knife, carefully placing it back in alignment with all the other ones in the black leather. "A bear trap and a beer bottle. That''s... certainly a choice for weapons."

    Connor spit, twice, on the ground behind my shoes before responding in his very fascinating accent.

    "Hell, man," he said. "I''d use the same ones."

    "Tango Echo Delta, team!" Kaylee yelled from her spot on the ground about twenty feet away from where we stood. She probably telepathically heard our conversations, or, more probably, was reading all of our minds- as long as none of us were locking up from her.

    Or the rest of the telepath world.

    "Eldredge here," said Sam''s telepathic voice.

    From about fifteen yards to my right, I saw Jupiter Two practically sear two Talons with one opening of his mouth. I smiled. My new friend had jaws.

    "Team- Tango Echo Delta," Kaylee commanded again. "What''s up, Edge?"

    Sam''s voice was the physical one when she replied, and we all heard it.

    "Y''ALL DON''T NEED TO KEEP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO HERE," it said. "I''m having a blast!" I heard her knuckles connect with a Talon''s face- and I saw it from where Connor and I stood. The Talon woman stumbled a million steps back until Sam again pursued her and connected her knockout blow, all the while still throwing hands at the others around her, her brass knuckles gleaming and shining the more she threw her fists. She was a glowing rainbow of pure destruction. I saw her smile at me. "I don''t know about you!"

    "A brother and a father are missing," Kaylee replied, with her physical voice, slowly backing up toward us while still shooting Welwitschia arrows; throwing mutated poison anthurium bombs. There was still a smile in her voice; it wasn''t as prominent.

    "They could be..." I paused. "For all we know they might be hurt."

    Sam zoomed her way in and toward us, a glowing speeding lightshow of yellow and green and white and blond and pink.

    "That''s why we''re here," she said.

    "They might be-" Kaylee started.

    I wasn''t frantic, but my next words were automatic and five times faster than my words normally were.

    "They might be in an experiment. They might be subjected to stuff; they might be, might be being experimented on." I paused to pull out one knife, throw it in one straight line- at the right wing of the Talon man that viciously lacerated Kaylee''s back- before she could say much else. From atop the tall trees around and all above us, Happy the raccoon tossed a mini-apple, which I axe-kicked in Kaylee''s direction. "Kayles!" I yelled. She caught the apple in her right hand and started consuming it immediately, as her blood saturated the back of her delicate, silk, orange top. "We don''t know," I said. "But I think we all know that if they''re tested on or tortured for even one day, and it''s my fault, I will never forgive myself."

    "Me neither," Kaylee groaned, as Sam shielded us with her body. I put my left hand under the fabric of Kaylee''s halter tank top, on her waist- as the skin of my back started to sting madly. Whatever claws these monsters had on them, they weren''t normal claws. "Thanks, Marblefox."

    "Keep shooting," I said.

    --ovw--XLX--ovw-- [L]

    "Keep shooting," I said.

    MONDAY

    9:00 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    Kaylee shook her head, in what looked like disappointment.

    "I should have worn the double layer top."

    In front of us and still hard at work protecting us, Sam snorted, in the middle of her favorite Muay Thai clinch, to a step-up kick to a horizontal elbow to a haymaker- putting three Talon down in the process. "Oh, PLEASE." Her accent and speech both were particularly far from neutral when in a fight; it was a shift from her conversational voice. Like if she was an intense fight it was almost the V4 accent in her voice doubled or tripled itself or something. She threw a diagonal kick to another haymaker. "You frontin'' like a deadass pine tree whip."

    Literally what the eff is a deadass pine tree whip.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    Another haymaker, another forward elbow thrust, straight jabs- the one move we probably shared or had in common at all- diagonal kick, punch to the midsection. She spoke between breaths. "Girl, that orange halter Guap you got ova thyeah shoulda gone anyway."

    Kaylee looked offended, but she said nothing.

    I gripped a blade and threw it, hard, straight into the arm of a Talon woman that was about to lay hands on Sam''s head or neck or whatever from behind. She squawked, and stepped backward, giving Sam enough time to uppercut her- the Talon was off the ground when I moved in, forward and onto my right leg, to spin backward with my left foot way above my head for the high, spinning, calculated, diagonal arc that connected into the Talon''s face; Sam followed up with what she liked to call her right-right-to-left power cross straight jab to power straight- and this Talon was another one down before she/it/him/they had even touched the ground; wings and arms and limbs flew and then landed hard in the opposite direction.

    I observed the subtle motion of very faint shadows on the ground- shadows of very large wings- behind me and to the right.

    Sensing the massive Talon behind me, I shifted one very small step to the right and performed the undercut forwards handstand pop (which I very rarely ever did at all, because this maneuver to me was more power than momentum, and I didn''t exactly have a lot of power). And it was quite possibly the only way I would have reached this Talon man''s jaw at all- connecting hard exactly where I hoped I would; lifting him up and off the ground. I felt that almost-inconspicuous flow of not just adrenaline but also heat from my palms down to my heels, in that half-second transfer of weight. I pushed with my palms, spun into my right in the air- and connected with an elbow to an elbow to a knee into my very common spinning high arc heel. The Talon man seemed to almost crash into the ground, attempting to soften his fall with air resistance and counter force from his wings, but invisible arms wrapped around him- Connor slammed him into the ground before gravity had the chance to do it on its own. I noticed only because of the suddenly and oddly intercepted trajectory- and also the very, very pithy "Goin'' down!" sound bite I heard Connor say during fights or video games or SRAs. I soundlessly met the ground, handspringed backward just for extra flight and quadruple twisted in the air on my way back to Kaylee. I flicked my wrist, and the two small black combat knives I''d used at all, flew- in a perfect straight line- back into my left hand. I placed them back inside the leather holder, readjusting the cloth bandages on my hand.

    "I think she''s beautiful whatever she wears," I said. I also bought her the halter tank top. We both liked orange, we liked delicate-looking things that were pretty; things that reminded her of flowers. I liked green more. On most days red was my favorite color, orange was Kaylee''s. I think we liked all colors; Sam hated practically every other clothing item that Kaylee wore. This particular article of Kaylee''s apparel was silk and charmeuse, was also straight from mainland U.S., and cost me about two hundred dollars. I remember James telling me to stop buying gifts for the girl that was practically an heiress to a quarter of the U.S. Overwoods division.

    I said no.

    I really loved James back then...

    Connor''s sourceless physical voice spoke from somewhere in the melee.

    "I''m sorry to distract y''all from yer topic of fashion and all-"

    "It looks like shit," Sam interrupted.

    "It really doesn''t, Sam," said Connor from wherever he was, "but that''s not the point-"

    As I helped Kaylee cover her harsher lacerations with stielvine, Sam bobbed and ducked and weaved into an overhand right- which missed- when a Talon woman sunk her teeth into Sam''s right forearm.

    "YOU DUMB BITCH," Sam snarled, smashing the Talon woman''s face with her left fist once, effectively knocking her out, and then grabbing her legs, giving her the Samoan drop- and then giant swinging her to maybe a half mile away. She quite efficiently got rid of the rest of the group in the process during the swing rotations. The one Talon man left had only the time to turn and attempt to run when Sam grabbed him by the back, dragged him by the wings, and then gave him the hammerlock suplex.

    Kaylee visibly winced while I took the physical and emotional pain for her, for the moment.

    "Ahem ahem," continued Connor, who now reappeared once more and was already smoking a megacigarette- probably the Eggnog Matcha one judging by the smell of it, ugh, it was AWFUL- and walked up to us, showing us the face of his sleek, expensive, cutting-edge, deluxe, $5,000 cell phone. There was a map on it.

    Something tugged at my head.

    "Wait," I said.

    Connor looked at me, like he was examining me, probing my response. Like every fiber of him was scrutinizing my reaction to this... this map.

    I took the card, now a crumpled and folded paper, from where it was sealed inside the plastic casing of the back of my cell phone. I straightened it; pressed the folds outwards, to look at it again- but this time, juxtaposed to what Connor was showing me.

    "Dumb bitch," Sam fumed again, but at this point nobody was paying attention. "Mother fuckers destroyed my Givenchy watch from 2nd Avenue-"

    This map...

    "Connor," I said. "Where did you get this?"

    His sleepy, slow, Southern-ish voice chastised me.

    "How ''bout I ask you the same thing?"

    "You mean this?" I said, gesturing at the little card which was now creased and slightly faded. "One of the men that abused me gave this to me. One of the... one of the paying ones. I think I was eleven, or something."

    There was a silence, a silence so unusual, so dismal, so full of gloom. That''s how it felt to me, with Sam gone almost statue-still, her eyes no longer on her Givenchy watch from 2nd Avenue, rather her eyes locked on my face with what I supposed was some look of maybe shock- unless it was compassion or pity which I DID NOT want at that very minute- and Kaylee and Connor both silently just waiting, perhaps, for something else to be said. They both looked at the ground for a moment.

    "There were hundreds of them," I said. "Come on, let''s move on. I survived, I lived through it, let''s focus on that," I expressed. "At least, for now." I cleared my throat, flexed my fingers, stared down at my left hand. Then I looked up at the soft lilac sky, the green and turquoise snowflakes falling down calmly in light, spiral patterns. "My PTSD''s killing me already, okay?"

    "Okay," Kaylee said.

    "I got this from Belinda''s files," said Connor. "After she was taken for interrogation... Caleb and I unlocked her stuff. We found..." He paused.

    And then didn''t continue.

    "Say it, Mr. Benzo Disappear-o," said Sam.

    I groaned.

    "He doesn''t do benzodiazepines," I said.

    Kaylee and Sam both gave me some kind of "oh you didn''t know?" look.

    "Okay," I said. I put my hands up in a dramatic, sarcastic gesture. "Whatever, I don''t know. I know nothing, okay?- now what did you and Caleb find?"

    More silence. Happy the raccoon was cheerfully riding on Jupiter Two''s back, as they delightedly walked into the circle of conversation; Happy playing with a stick he found somewhere during the fight and Jupiter Two with an apple in his mouth. He dropped it on the ground in front of me, and I gave it to Kaylee.

    "Hey, Jupiter," I said, patting his big fluffy white doggy Samoyed head as he licked the dirt and blood off my face. "Hi, Happy!" The small raccoon bounded up and onto my shoulder, just like he did at the Thornton Building, where Ember had given them to me just earlier that same day.

    Because of the flashbacks of memories, it felt almost like eons ago...

    Combine that with the blood and the fighting.

    I sighed. "Happy-" I removed the little strands of white dog fur from my bandaged hand and jacket sleeve, as Jupiter shook the snow- and burnt twigs and ash- off himself. "Happy, one little happy apple, please."

    Happy produced one immediately. Kaylee made one, too, probably not the exact same healing-caliber but with that same very subtle flash of mysterious, almost captivating light that you saw only for a fraction of a second- then the next moment the plant or the fruit or the stem or the leaf was there. Whichever one they chose, if they were capable of it.

    Kaylee threw the normal apple at Sam''s chest, where she caught it- with a look of surprise- in both hands.

    "Criticize your own outfit choices next time," said Kaylee.

    Shush, I said only to Kaylee, telepathically. Not worth it.

    Karma is a thing.

    I locked eyes with Connor. After a fight, after the invisibility and superpowers, we both had eyes a more metallic, more colloidal, more reflective shade from their original hue- his turned to black like oil and mine turned to gray like ash.

    WHAT did you and Caleb find?

    Kaylee walked away to go collect her Welwitschia arrows. I waited for Connor''s response.

    "Nothing," he said. "Nothing else."

    Pffffffffffffft. Yeah. Sure.

    Sam, who was the opposite of subtle, responded.

    "C''mon," she bleated, "d''ya really gotta lie so smooth?" She popped two orange-and-pink colored pills in her mouth and swallowed them dry. "Smooth like poopy chicken ass."

    "It''s fine," I said. "Whatever it is... Connor will tell me, if it has to be said." I locked eyes with Connor. "I''ll just... I''ll just guess what it is, until you decide it''s time. I guess."

    I wasn''t sure what else to say exactly.

    "Is it bad?" I said. "How bad is it?"

    Connor took another huff and another puff, his megacigarette smoke the same dark black that moved like slowly vanishing molasses from the cold and yet still humid Overwoods air. He blew it in Kaylee''s direction; she wasn''t near enough to really breathe it. I coughed because I still smelled it; Sam cracked her knuckles repeatedly.

    "It isn''t bad," he said. Happy the raccoon poked my cheek, where my dimple was. I patted his head with my left hand. Connor continued. "But you don''t deserve to hate yourself."

    "Too late," I said. "I probably already do."

    Half of Connor''s auburn-and-blue hair was fading in and out of vision, pulsing- this was how it was if he was either nervous, or just used up a lot of his powers, or both. He hadn''t shaved for a while and his sky-blue colored stubble was almost that of Caleb''s in terms of length and thickness.

    He replied with, "That''s why I''m not telling you."

    --ovw--

 the overwoods - full book pt 4

    --ovw--LI--ovw--

    He replied with, "That''s why I''m not telling you."

    MONDAY

    9:13 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    "Been a while since a situation got this messed up from one murder case."

    I reviewed records and composites on my U.S.-issued mobile device as Connor Meadows lead the way.

    To where, I didn''t know at the time.

    Sam popped her pink bubble gum.

    "A ten-year old girl, right?" she said.

    "Fourteen," said Kaylee. "I think."

    Kaylee and Connor were the ones that helped take in the armed suspect we found at Il Male Nekantral.

    "And from the Lowdown," I remarked.

    "Just like our star Christopher Midnight," quipped Connor. "Funny because if you never told anyone they''d think you were from the Suburbs, or something."

    "Sure, Connor."

    Connor''s device blinked and beeped, alerting us to take a turn in some sort of direction.

    "Kaylee," I said.

    "Yeah?"

    "Who was the lady in the mask?"

    She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

    "Lady in the mask," I repeated. I watched Jupiter Two wag his big fluffy white tail as he trotted along beside us, a happy dog, not a care in the entire world. "Kayles?"

    "Sorry," she said. "Sarah Olivia ''Coke Sandwich'' Peters." The name was vaguely familiar. Though I knew it wasn''t one of my cases- I would''ve known immediately. Maybe one of Kaylee''s? Her vigilante ones, anyway. "Previously identified drug trafficker and addict."

    "Any other known or alleged crimes?" I said.

    "Apart from trying to assault us at the hotel," Connor said, "none that we''ve heard of."

    Jupiter Two jumped up and down. I gave him a biscuit I still had on me from Baker Joe''s. It was soggy from the snow, despite the wrapping.

    "Why is she nicknamed Coke Sandwich?" I said.

    "I''ll send him the warrants," Sam said. "Girl puts coke in her sandwiches."

    Sheesh. I wondered what I missed in a week.

    "We missed you, you know," said Kaylee.

    "I missed having a purpose," I said. "I had to sneak inside just to use the training simulation rooms. Although that was fun."

    "The guards wouldn''t have stopped you," said Kaylee. "You were off the case a week, not the entire Union of Sta-"

    Another resounding blast, and almost-blinding flash of pure white- from one side of the huge abandoned diamond mine we were now approaching.

    "Shit," said Connor.

    The soft lilac sky and its soft glow was seemingly so out of place from all the blood and all the fear I assumed we all felt.

    "Fuck this," said Sam.

    "This was... this was a diamond mine?" I said. "Supposedly, right?"

    "Did anyone ever really believe there were any diamonds in here?" said Kaylee.

    "Nope," said Connor.

    "If by diamonds you mean heroin then yeah, probably," said Sam.

    We all gave her some sort of look.

    I had the perfect response.

    "Umm," I said. "Cool."

    "That shit ain''t even strong, Chris." She popped a pill and swallowed it dry, around the peach-and-strawberry Baker Joe''s bubble gum. "You should see the stuff they sell in mainland U.S., it''s pure fire."

    Kaylee and I stared at each other.

    "I have," I said. I addressed Connor. "So... this place we''re going. What is it?"

    "We don''t know. But Reynaldo Mendoza Torres, and Sarah Coke Shit, and Belinda, all had this same file with the same coordinates... and what seems like the same map. And, apparently, so did you."

    "Coke Sandwich," said Sam.

    "Please arrest me, Mr. Meadows, for having a random four-inch piece of soggy paper from a human trafficking patron, who offered to buy me shoes I couldn''t accept per human abuse job protocol." I checked myself. "Correction, sorry- he offered me money to go buy shoes; money I couldn''t take. Can you give me a cell away from Belinda Klein''s and closer to the Davenports'' office?"

    "I''m not saying you''re in on this," Connor said. "But... there has to be some reason he gave it to you."

    "He felt bad for me. They all did. They hurt me anyway then felt bad then did it again." Jupiter Two nuzzled my arm. "Hey, if it''s pointless... let''s not talk about this today."

    "Do you remember his name? How old was he? Where was he from?"

    "Connor," said Sam. "Leave him alone."

    It might help the murder victim. I mean- the case. It might help for the murder victim''s case. There was no saving that girl now.

    I stopped walking, and closed my eyes.

    Kaylee put her hand around my wrist.

    "Chris?"

    "I... don''t remember much. Older man, wore some kind of... a tux."

    "Tuxedo?" asked Connor.

    "Or a suit. I''m sorry, there were so many. This one wasn''t ugly like a lot of them were. He was... he was kind of nice. I think he was."

    "I told you to just leave him alone," said Sam.

    Happy the raccoon poked the dimple on my left cheek.

    "I tried," I muttered.

    I kept walking.

    "Any... distinguishing characteristics?"

    "He told me to ''get out of here,'' something like that."

    "What do you think he meant by that?"

    "Connor," said Kaylee. "Stop."

    "No idea. We have a case, and now a kidnapping- two kidnappings. Are we any closer yet?"

    Another explosion. Was it the third, or the fourth? We didn''t even know what we''d heard earlier during the fight with the Talon.

    Sam removed her hands from her ears.

    "This shit''s louder and more annoying than Jeminem X Cardo P rapping on crack," she remarked. "Real talk. This place mad gully, bro. Let''s leave."

    "No," the three of us replied in unison.

    "You''re the one that wanted to be here," Kaylee said.

    Happy gave Sam an apple.

    "Heat signatures," Connor said.

    --ovw--

    --ovw--LII--ovw--

    "Heat signatures," Connor said.

    MONDAY

    9:14 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    "I''m running straight into them," I said. "I got this."

    I tapped my own holographic projection and immediately saw two bodies- human bodies as far as I could tell. We were only a half-kilometer away from the abandoned mine''s lift.

    "Visuals." I spotted them, both in black, masked- almost similar to Sarah Peters back at the hotel, but not quite exactly identical.

    As they pulled out their guns, I roundoffed into a whipback and launched for a long arc takeoff, facing the direction of our antagonists.

    They almost reminded me of those evil bandits in that one video game Kaylee and I played, Webesteria.

    I smiled.

    "Coming in hot, my friends!" I yelled from above them.

    As if in slow motion, I slid the U.S. tapping device face shut and closed the hologram, pocketed the mobile, and spun into my left and into my backwards arched layout. They shot at me but that wasn''t good enough; if there was one thing as unpredictable as the Overwoods weather, it was possibly my spin lines and the modifications I made, to in-air body positions.

    And Sam, probably.

    Two seconds later both my of my beat-up black shoes were on the taller adversary''s shoulders.

    "Hello there," I said. "Tell me what you know, and I won''t have to knock one of you out and then otherwise silence the other."

    "Is this kid on crack?" said the other masked adversary, a seemingly female voice.

    "If by crack you mean apples," I said, "then yes."

    I twisted and spun fast into a forward quadruple as she shot but missed awfully, horribly- because as I did, I saw the blood start to flow heavily from one of the ears of the bandit I just took off of.

    Well, bandit- or criminal or gangster or warden or bouncer or guard or whatever. Either it was just his ear hopefully, or, hopefully not, somewhere near his skull. His or hers or theirs or xeirs, I didn''t know the pronoun at the time.

    I landed on the woman''s shoulders- with ignite on this time- and dropped into a double-twisting hurricanrana whip to a hard right elbow to the side of her cranium- the hardest single elbow I had thrown that day so far. There was no need for the Americana submission arm lock Carter White taught me. I pocketed her two Bauer 355OD handguns (instantly feeling disgusted because at the time I generally still hated guns) and ran back to the taller person.

    "Hey," I said. "Are you okay?"

    The muffled response rang clear in the empty space between us.

    "Stay back!" the man said- in some kind of neutral mainland U.S. accent, he sounded almost like James, or even a little bit like me, "this is protected territory!"

    Protected?

    Protected by who?

    The man tried to shoot but only dropped his one handgun upon pulling the trigger, stumbled back, and put his right hand to his temple- near his ear, where all the blood was coming from. He dropped to some kind of partly sitting, partly crawling position- half on his back and half on his side. It reminded me of that centipede I saw outside of school back in the Suburbs.

    Well, a heavily bleeding centipede.

    Didn''t he have backups? Fellow recruits? A healer or a medical agent, like I was depending on the mission?

    "Help," he said to no one in particular.

    I front walkovered in his direction, hands on the ground then feet then hands for four flips and a half, soundlessly, until I lowered myself onto the ground beside him for the final landing. I simply tossed his handgun to the side with my left hand, tossed it down beside the lift, where it slid into a rock and then fell down. Down, down, down, into the enormous mine. I stared at it until it disappeared from any human eye''s field of perception.

    "Help," he said again to no one in particular.

    "I got you," I said.

    See, this is why I hated guns.

    At the time I did...

    "Help," he said for the third time.

    I tore his mask with one of my small black combat knives, hollered at Kaylee, as Happy the raccoon bounded toward me, riding on top of Jupiter Two. I placed two fingers into the mess of blood and torn skin.

    Suddenly, I was afraid. Afraid that we might not save him- this... this whoever he was. The blood that pooled around our legs was sizeable in amount and pool diameter and I''d survived it before in Nightingale and otherwise- but... what about him?

    "Happy! Kayles! Asses over here!"

    "We''re here, we''re here!" Kaylee hopped over the unconscious woman''s body, whereas Sam stepped on both her breasts and then took the cash from her pockets before zooming over. Kaylee immediately made stielvine to wrap around the bandit''s head.

    "We need him conscious," I said. "Arrowvine- read his mind, now. Get whatever you find. Cognito, Edge- surveillance. Let us know what''s down there."

    "Eldredge copies!" cheered Sam. "Last one to the lift is a monkey''s megacigarette butt! Oops, sorry, you lose!" She zoomed to the old, creaky-looking lift. "Pulling up in dat whip, I done dat dumb shit..." she rapped to herself as Connor made his way toward her.

    --ovw--LIII--ovw--

    MONDAY

    9:19 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    "Pulling up in dat whip, I done dat dumb shit..." she rapped to herself as Connor made his way toward her.

    I turned my attention to the man under us.

    Compassion, not the need to get clear and coherent answers, moved my other hand onto the skin of his neck. And yes, here was the pain; awful, heavy, like a headache but more so like the death and the foggy blurry gore and the necrosis that Zapryekavil brought on- not as bad, but almost.

    "Can you please not think about Zapryekavil right now!?" said Kaylee.

    "Dude," I said, "read this guy''s mind, not mine!"

    "Muscle memory," she said. "I read everything."

    "Fuck that right now, Kayles, freaking concentrate."

    "Help me, please," the man mumbled.

    You''ll be fine, I wanted to say.

    But the reality was, I didn''t know.

    Despite the stielvine, he was bleeding. There was... some part of me that almost knew it was too late, too late for him. But just didn''t want to acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway.

    No-

    I was going to save him. I was there to help him; I was going to save him.

    Enough people were abused or tortured or killed in front of me.

    The black streaks under my eyes, the skin on my hands as well as my face turning white, the irises of my eyes probably changing color from brown to gray to white at this point; I didn''t know how much time we had.

    I spoke telepathically to Kaylee, because of the mission, and, because, this man I didn''t know was probably dying.

    Concentrate.

    I''m doing that.

    Well, do better.

    "Shut up, Chris," Kaylee said physically, with a tone of acid to her normal singsong Southern U.S. voice.

    The man started to laugh. It was terrifying. Because... I''d heard that kind of laughter before. We both did, Kaylee and I.

    Blood ran down both my eyes.

    "It''s funny... I don''t... I don''t... I don''t feel any pain at all anymore. Thank you."

    Those were the last words he spoke.

    --ovw--LIV--ovw--

    I break down walls then put up fences.

    - from Towards the Light V

    Did I believe when you said,

    "Hey, come with me, I won''t brainwash you?"

    - from If Jealousy Was Money

    --ovw--

    MONDAY

    9:22 AM

    Northwest of Windcreek

    "It''s funny... I don''t... I don''t... I don''t feel any pain at all anymore. Thank you."

    Those were the last words he spoke.

    My hands shook erratically, my skin crawled, like they didn''t want to be a part of me. I didn''t want to be a part of me.

    I got up, turned around, and walked.

    I did this.

    "By the time you read this, you''ll either have discovered your powers or this paper will be on top of your dead body. I''ll guess you''re alive because you get everything you want and my attempt to kill you probably didn''t work.

    I just want you to know you''re worthless.

    That you''re pitiful, that everything you do is a mistake.

    People will know you and remember you. And they will say good things about you.

    I''ll make sure you don''t hear them. You''ll hear only me. You will believe only what I said about you then, and what I think about you now.

    Nothing you do is right."

    Blood stopped running down my face, the blood from my eyes. And then it was blood with water. My breaths turned into that same ragged, uneven, choked breathing- it was like Nightingale, it was just like Nightingale... and that stupid experiment should have killed me.

    I couldn''t do one thing right.

    "Fuck!"

    My voice echoed around the walls of the mine below us, bouncing off to empty space around us.

    What was this life, anyway? What did I ever do? It seemed to me, my only purpose was to be a mop bucket for all of the dirt in this world, all of the garbage and the dirt it had to offer.

    AS IF I DIDN''T FEEL DIRTY ENOUGH ALREADY.

    I hated guns...

    And that other one, it fell down, down, down, down this deep, empty mine of who knew how many floors. I felt my feet, I felt my legs walking.

    Kaylee''s voice yelled from somewhere in the area.

    "Chris!"

    I heard it. But what else I heard was bedroom moans, torture wails, pleading. Seventeen years of what seemed mostly like senseless pain, senseless persecution. This eighteenth one didn''t seem to be that much different.

    Not now.

    And I thought, probably not tomorrow...

    "CHRIS!"

    Two steps, four steps, six.

    Seven.

    He was in a black coat, a tuxedo, I think they called it. The man was across from me as I sat on the bed reading my only copy of the Bible. I wanted more books, but couldn''t afford them. The only cloth on my body was half the bed sheet.

    The man took his watch from the drawer and looked back at me. It was maybe the prettiest, shiniest thing I had ever seen then, his watch. Gold and silver, and shining things, I thought it was made of. He smiled at me.

    "You don''t want me to go," he said. "Do you?"

    I looked at the man- he was somewhere in his thirties, maybe early forties? His hair was a mix of blond and some gray.

    "You''re the one that... doesn''t make things hurt too badly," I said. I surveyed his eyes, any nuances in their movement or any movement of his body that was out of his ordinary behavior. It was something I knew to do, from early. How early, I don''t remember. "So I guess not."

    I was always honest with these people. Even the ones that hurt me the most. I was eleven.

    "Do you have kids?" I asked.

    He looked at me.

    "Why do you ask?" he said.

    I shook my head. "I don''t know. Curious, I guess."

    The man put a stack of paper bills on top of a table beside the bed.

    "I''m not supposed to take gifts," I said.

    "You don''t have to tell anyone," he replied, discreetly. Hushed. "Get yourself something nice. Something new to read. A pair of shoes, something."

    "I can''t take it," I said. I tried hard to disguise the disappointment I felt but couldn''t. "There''s a camera."

    Was there a difference, between "wouldn''t" or "couldn''t?"

    One of Kaylee''s vines wrapped around my less-damaged wrist and hand- the right one. I cut it off with a combat knife. I used the special marked one; the special marked one that I used on nobody but myself.

    I counted one cut for each of the people that I was not able to save, when I saved myself; I counted one cut for each individual that used me all for themselves. I wanted one cut for each time that someone else had hurt me, because this way, I was hurting myself.

    You make goodbye look so easy.

    I remember noting how strong her accent was when she popped her gum again, chewed, and replied with, "Yeah, me too. You get to call me Sam." She pulled a folded piece of paper from a jacket pocket and snorted whatever was in it, then said, "Let''s do this, Morphine."

    I remember how her black-and-yellow striped pants made her look like a bumblebee; a bumblebee with the most breathtakingly colored eyes.

    You make goodbye look so easy.

    How''s your life in wonderland?

    I glanced at the strange, slow, orange-with-purple-clouds Overwoods summer sunset; I remembered Marie. Summers here that rained and snowed with typhoons or hurricanes or every other catastrophe you could possibly think of. The boys and girls- the children- that have never and will never recover from the tortures.

    But Kaylee and I are damaged forever.

    While the ones who ran the experiment are probably out drunk and partying.

    I am so hungry...

    You make goodbye look so easy.

    How''s your life in wonderland?

    You''re spending for another call, and another time

    Just to get me near you

    Fifteen steps, twenty.

    From the snakes, from the most evil of all the most evil, from the oblivion, from the misery that existed only in some places.

    I plunged into the earth.

    --ovw--

    You make goodbye look so easy.

    How''s your life in wonderland?

    You''re spending for another call, and another time

    Just to get me near you

    But I''ve lost everything.

    --ovw--LV--ovw--

    Scream it

    Watch as I turn midnight

    All I have

    Is thanks to you

    - from Does to You, Thanks to You

    Fifteen steps, twenty.

    From the snakes, from the most evil of all the most evil, from the oblivion, from the misery that existed only in some places.

    I plunged into the earth.

    Wind- I descended and descended. I didn''t remember how high the fall was; how deep this mine was. They must have been mining for long if it was that deep. Air tossed my black hair back and around and my double-tied ponytail everywhere, I felt this and nothing else as I kept my eyes closed and awaited my death.

    Of course, like Century Spire, that''s not how it happened.

    I didn''t remember hitting any kind of ground.

    I was still descending, falling to death; I didn''t know what hit me- or if anything even did- when I blacked out.

    MONDAY

    Around 10:36 AM

    Below the earth

    Exact location unknown

    Bottles.

    Bottles of... Vystir antidote. Just like the ones I begged for, from James, years ago.

    Vystir antidote. That was the first thing I saw.

    My teeth... bloody, only slightly more damaged than how fucked up they already were; the taste of blood was what seemed to tell me that I was alive still.

    A very vaguely familiar, yet somehow deep and relaxing, almost musical- well, to me it was anyway- voice spoke. I wasn''t sure it was real. And it was almost like I knew who it was. But this could''ve all been a trick.

    "Chris."

    I spun up and off the ground, until a chain on my left wrist cut me from the air and dragged me back down.

    And then, it wasn''t a chain; it was some kind of red plastic, tied to some kind of machine. There was... some kind of IV drip, several of them actually, on my right arm.

    I was left bleeding on the ground but stuck with needles?

    I...

    I remember feeling like a trapped animal; a small helpless trapped animal knowing he was about to get slaughtered, or worse.

    Much worse.

    I don''t want to be here

    I don''t want to be here I don''t want to be here I don''t want to be here I don''t want to be here

    "Chris, over here."

    I ripped needles and micro tubing off my right arm, and glanced over at where the male voice came from. This room was dark- the walls were black.

    Kind of like Nightingale...

    The bottles of Vystir antidote were on a midnight blue tinted glass table. And there he was- the man who called my name. He looked maybe a few years older than I was? Perhaps five years, something? He had sandy-colored hair and silver-blue eyes, piercing and utterly luminous; Labradorite and Tourmaline gemstones mixed with a light blue sky.

    Yes, exactly- it took me that long to put my guard back up. The kindest-looking men can be dangerous. I was off, I was so off. An easy target, trapped in a place unknown yet also strangely familiar.

    Oh wait hold on a second

    "Where am I?" I said, wincing, as more blood spouted off and onto my left hand when savagely I tore off whatever was above it; to say that I was dizzy was the top five understatement of the decade. A white light bulb, concealed inside a deep black mission style lamp to my left, started to flicker. But it almost seemed to flicker in a specific pattern.

    No wait a second I know this place

    My eyes wide, I tucked my right elbow and tightened my core, performed my half-turn evade into front double to one-legged roundoff to backwards whip- one of my most basic but most useful maneuvers- then dropping to the floor as black shards of wood and glass and plastic flew like bomb shrapnel from thirty-nine feet away. Twelve meters. Like a gymnastics floor.

    I didn''t even go out of bounds.

    I remember wanting to immediately ask more questions; I didn''t. Experience had taught me to always await at least the first response, to assess the situation (or assess whoever was in a room with you, especially if they were larger, or both) further, and to pause before you take any kind of next step.

    I took a deep, slow breath, closed my eyes, and then made the decision to speak again.

    Rising slowly from the marble floor which now had my blood on it, I said, "Should I repeat my question?"

    He paused before answering me, like he was trying to put something together. The short, buzzed hair on his face was a funny shade of yellow, darker than blond.

    "Wilson-Delos Santos-Martinez diamond mine. You..." he paused again. This man had the strangest expression on his face as he locked his eyes on mine. I couldn''t place it. "You might know it as the, um."

    Okay kill me now

    "The what?" I insisted.

    "Well-"

    "SAY IT."

    "Experimentation site."

    Experimentation site...

    "So..." I said. "You mean, like... like Nightingale?"

    I pretended my voice didn''t totally wobble at the N-part, the first syllable of that word. Even though it completely obviously did. It''s possible I even stuttered.

    Yeah, I probably did.

    The man looked at me, like he wanted to say more... or, was it possible? Almost like he wanted to put arms around me.

    But not in a bad way.

    "Possibly," he said.

    "Why are you here?" I said. "Why are we here?"

    To our right, there was a glass wall. Just barely, vaguely, I made out the silhouette of what looked like a tall man.

    Of course, almost any man or woman was tall to me.

    "Chris."

    "What? And how do you know my name?

    He stood still, one of his wrists also tied by what looked like plastic of some kind. And then, I knew immediately it probably wasn''t just plastic.

    For just one fleeting moment, a blurry recollection of my body breaking through thin acrylic and pseudopolycarbonate sheets and layers of mysterious glass ran through my mind. It might have been my imagination. But the sense that my arms had been dragged and the strange, almost-dislocated-but-not-exactly sensation in my shoulders told me that''s exactly what happened.

    I continued.

    "I..."

    Well, I tried to continue, anyway.

    I am a marshmallow

    He said nothing; he just looked at me. His eyes locked hard on mine like he was asking some kind of unspoken question.

    I kept my thoughts as logical as I possibly could have.

    I am a marshmallow

    This was not making any sense. I wasn''t even sure if I was alive. If I said anything, what loss could that cause me? I was probably dead anyway, and this guy wasn''t going to hurt me; he was behind something.

    "I jumped." I looked at my torn pant leg. I remembered the shard of wood from the mutated giant tree I smashed into before I rolled like a cotton ball soaked of his own blood. "I jumped and now I''m... here."

    "Yeah," the man said. "You attempted suicide trying to find me."

    "Find you?" I said. "Dude, I don''t even know you."

    "Caleb," he said. "Your boyfriend. Kaylee''s brother."

    There was a pause before he spoke again, at which time I took the opportunity to select a very useful shard of black glass off the bloody marble floor. There was so much blood on it; how was I alive? Perks of having been forcefully stuck with a million needles in an eighteen-year career/lifetime of starvation? Perks of being one-half of the only two Nightingale survivors?

    I visibly shuddered; I hugged my arms and added more blood to the front of my shirt.

    UGH I couldn''t even THINK that word

    "Please," he said. "Don''t tell me you''ve-"

    "I''m literally triple gay, yes," I butt in- "But I am single, and I like it that way, and seriously, eff men sometimes because, like- eighty percent of them are really just awful."

    I was lying. I was lonely and I wanted someone.

    I didn''t know if I wanted someone if I just needed distraction from the memories of the brutality of... of the... of the N word.

    Not *THAT* N word OMG

    I hoped he couldn''t read that off me from behind the transparent physical divide between us. Was he a telepath? Because he seriously looked like he knew me; looked like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

    "Anyway, Kaylee''s..."

    Kaylee. Where was my most valued friend; fellow Nightingale survivor?

    "She... she tried to help me make it somewhere." I shook my head. This felt way too much like Nightingale. "We were... finding something, somewhere." I of course omitted the part that we were probably doing it as part of the Union of Stars; I didn''t know who this guy was. "I met her dads. Awesome people. But the other one''s kind of an alcoholic." I cleared my throat. "Sometimes. I don''t know who you are."

    Why was I talking to him, anyway? He could have been Krasvya, or a spy, or a torturer, or a murderer or rapist or both, or something.

    Why was I talking to him?

    "Do I know you from somewhere?" I said, trying to be polite. "I''m so sorry. I''m... lost."

    I could have been wrong, but I think there was almost some kind of sheen in his eyes.

    Sheesh. I thought I was the crybaby- I mean, I really was. Anything made me cry.

    "Sorry if I insulted you," I said.

    --ovw--LVI--ovw--

    "Sorry if I insulted you," I said.

    MONDAY

    10:39 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    He turned, to face the back of his... of the capsule he was in. I wasn''t in one.

    Okay, this was too much like En Gail.

    Shit.

    I tried to slow my breathing. The man said nothing, and then... from what seemed like nowhere, he began to sob; albeit softly. I was so confused- and even more so when the next voice spoke.

    "It worked," a deep, resonant, gruff-ish voice announced. "He won. The boy''s forgotten us."

    Someone won?

    "Won a what?" I asked idiotically.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    "Danny," said this other man- a strange one by the looks of him; almost very mysterious. To me he was, anyway. He wore a large glowing red mantle, and some kind of brown pair of leather gloves. They looked almost familiar... somehow. I knew he''d beat me easily in an unarmed SRA. The red mantle he wore could cover two times my body size; one of those gloves could have both my hands in one.

    I can''t fight a huge dude

    YES YES I CAN NOW

    I''m like 5''2

    FIVE THREE!!! And who says he wanted to hurt you?

    I don''t know I don''t know I don''t know I don''t know

    HE LOOKS TERRIFYING

    NO HE DOESN''T

    I don''t know I don''t know I don''t know I don''t know

    I was terrified- but, no. He couldn''t hurt me. The two of them were in those En Gail capsules; I wasn''t.

    I exhaled a sigh of relief.

    And then I was terrified.

    How did they both know... both my names?

    "If you won''t tell me why we''re here-"

    Something flickered in the darkness, to my left. It floated in the air- a tiny glowing shiny purple thing- and then it latched on to my arm. I didn''t move.

    Is this a new explosive-

    I remained frozen. Half of me was thinking that perhaps movement would set the thing off; the other half of me was thinking that perhaps it should just go off.

    I was tired. I was

    so

    tired

    Of everything, of myself; of not doing anything right JUST ONCE.

    But I couldn''t afford to let it show...

    I tried to look closer at the small glowing thing. I didn''t know what it was.

    "That''s a combustifly," said the older-looking of the two men. "They''re like butterfires. They''re also like fireflies- but those are extinct now."

    I''ve heard this guy speak before...

    Fireflies?

    Why does that SOUND familiar-

    I knew what fireflies were! I read about them once. In an old book. An old book, from... An old book from

    ...

    From...

    Uhm

    Uhm-

    Uhm.

    Uhm?

    Yes, I read about them in an old book from... somewhere.

    "And they also really like you," the man continued. His mantle seemed to glow in the dark, like a charred log from a mutated red sequoia tree when it''s tossed in the fire at home.

    At home?

    I... don''t have a home.

    "You like them because they''re good for keeping really pesky mosquitoes away. From both dogs and from yourself," he said.

    Doggy

    :3

    I smiled. "Well, I do like dogs!" I paused. I shook my head. "Where are we?"

    I looked at the En Gail capsules- or whatever they were but really I had nothing else to call them at the time- and tried not to think at all.

    Perfect cylinders. Almost-invisible glass walls.

    Assuming it was glass.

    Thinner than paper. Almost-invisible walls that are thinner than paper.

    They weren''t tinted, not like the wall Marie was behind when I spoke to her.

    Can you please

    NOT THINK ABOUT *THAT*????!

    The socket of my right eye felt odd- numb yet achy somehow at the same time- and I touched it with my left hand. I discovered that it was covered in dried blood.

    Wait.

    HOW did this happen?

    The rest of me was also covered in either dried or fresh blood. I was dizzy. A feather, the color of a seriously burnt eggplant, floated from my scalp onto my torn left shoe. I knelt down- which seriously hurt both my legs, particularly the left one- and took a closer look at it.

    A deep violet... FEATHER

    WHAT

    How when WHY

    WHAT

    WHAT??? with three question marks politely.

    Did I go fight a bird version of Wyatt last night?

    I repeated myself for what felt like the millionth time. It sounded like it ended with a period, like:

    "WHERE. AM. I."

    "We''re not sure, either," was the reply. I stood slowly and turned toward the sound. It was the dead ringer for the teacher... guy. "I''d have told you by now, Chris," said the one that was, apparently, still wiping tears from his eyes. "And you''d know that I''d have told you by now." He put a fist against the transparent barrier that kept him from attacking me. "You should KNOW that I would have told you by now!"

    He had that common-ish Southern U.S. accent. It almost reminded me of Scott, one of Kaylee''s dads.

    A wave of nausea hit me from nowhere. They have to know something! They MUST know something!

    I was becoming increasingly impatient with the lot of them.

    "If you won''t tell me why we''re here," I said, "then at least tell me what my relationship is with the two of you." How did they know, not one, but both of my names?

    "I feel sick," said the blond man.

    YEAH NO SHIT DUDE JOIN THE CLUB

    "Are you friends of Belinda''s?" I asked. "Do you work at the Webwork in V4?"

    "Do you still know who James is?" said the older man, the one with chestnut brown hair and some kind of cartoon Christmas-tree sideways shaped beard.

    Still know?

    "I''m not answering until you give me what you know." I flexed the fingers of my left hand, felt the very subtle rush of heat. I was in no mood to negotiate. "And there''s probably a trillion different Jameses."

    "James Tobler," the older man said. "Union of Stars."

    Okay. They knew.

    "Yeah, I mean, of course I know the guy."

    "Do you still know Kaylee?"

    Still know Kaylee?

    "I''ve been brainwashed before," I said, somewhat belligerently- "and they didn''t manage to even do that. The very few memories they managed to even mess up at all came back eventually. So stop treating me like a test subject."

    BECAUSE I WAS SO DONE WITH THAT.

    "Let me in your head, Chris," said the dirty blond-haired one, the one with the gray-blue eyes.

    They were actually kind of pretty. Maybe to me, anyway. So different from mine.

    Let me in your head, Chris.

    It was a whisper. An almost sweet one. And even strangely familiar, but...

    But how?

    His eyes reminded me of... of a sidewalk I once slipped on. It was covered in ice on a cloudless day.

    And then I snapped back to reality.

    LET ME IN YOUR HEAD???

    "How about I break open yours?" I said.

    And then- he continued to cry, and he said nothing.

    --ovw--LVII--ovw--

    "Let me in your head, Chris," said the dirty blond-haired one, the one with the gray-blue eyes.

    They were actually kind of pretty, to me, anyway. So different from mine.

    And then I snapped back to reality.

    "How about I break open yours?" I said.

    And then- he continued to cry, and he said nothing.

    MONDAY

    10:42 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    I had to think clearly.

    They knew my names. They knew James.

    I had to think, I reminded myself. Clearly. But there was that almost... ambiguously, hazily familiar feeling of fingers, hands, hands... on my head. I reached for the back of my head but there was nothing- just the ponytail; the two elastic bands still caked with my blood, a lot of it. That was blood, right? Not like my hair had any red in it? I wasn''t sure what I was imagining at that point; my vision was still out of focus and mostly still gray and black. I simultaneously still wanted to vomit but also really, really wanted some potato chips, both of these things while PTSD with conveniently appropriate flashbacks ate away at my mind. It took all the strength I had to not fall forwards onto my face on the floor.

    Dark red marble tile...

    It''s nothing, I said to myself- it feels like before but it''s nothing.

    It felt like hands were pulling my hair; dragging my head back. Something was in my thoughts- something that shouldn''t be there, but it was. Something or someone.

    Strands of my hair stuck to the blood on my neck; I remember they didn''t look as black as they usually did.

    Maybe it''s all the blood, I thought. Maybe I''ve run out of the red stuff or I''m running too low and now my brain is overcompensating. I should eat cheese. That''ll help.

    Red hair. It reminded me of James. And of someone else.

    Ew.

    I literally physically puked, again.

    I never had any reason to look at my hair, I never even visited any barber shops. Why would I literally sit down in a chair, while someone (someone I probably didn''t even know) literally stood behind me with sharp objects?

    The words came to mind again.

    "IF YOUR TEAM COMES FOR ME

    I''LL BREAK MORE THAN HIS BONES

    DAVENPORT WILL DIE

    -M M

    PS

    I LET YOU LIVE TO HAVE YOU

    AGAIN"

    I snorted. So we had Peters, Klein, Torres.

    Whoever it was... they certainly didn''t break anyone''s bones. Except perhaps mine if they were someone from my past.

    I wiped my mouth and face, smearing more blood on myself.

    "So, we have to get out of here," I said. "Don''t we?" My eyes scanned the shiny, black marble walls. Beautiful, absolutely elegant; the floor- different shades of red. Different hues of red, just like...

    "Who''s running this show?" I continued. "Torres? Peters? Someone they work for?"

    My right hand moved automatically to my jeans pocket, for the combat knives, in the leather holder. I heaved another sigh of relief. Still there.

    And then, there was an answer.

    "Neither," said the voice that haunted me only in my dreams. "Well, sort of. They do work for me, in one sense."

    Happy place happy place happy place happy place

    Ferrets and puppies and corgis and dogs and raccoons and marshmallows, and hot chocolate. All free.

    Happy place

    Happy place

    A world where I had the money and the opportunity to do what I wanted, not be a child abused by those completely incapable of humanity, because they simply did not have the brain to be capable of it at all.

    Happy place. Happy place.

    ...

    Happy place

    Here''s what I remember: my spine, it turned to ice. That''s what it felt like. I was ready to combust, explode into flames and blood and diamond and detonate, blow up- and take this entire mine with me in the process.

    Of course, that probably was not on the table.

    But when I turned around, it was... Belinda.

    "Klein?"

    No response, from anyone there.

    "Klein, who was that, where is he?"

    And then, he shifted. Shape shifted. From a tied-up curly mess of thinning gray hair, dyed pink, bamboo and ladders-and-snakes tattoos with thorns and the tiger and the red eyes; within seconds he was the man I saw just that one week in the B14 training simulation. The one who saw me, a child, as nothing- and I meant nothing even in the least- except for a source of income.

    It took all that I had not to bury every single one of the twenty-five knives in my pocket into his face.

    "You realize you left me armed," I said. "Tell me your name before I arrest you."

    He looked at me, sad, a disappointed look on his face. He almost pouted.

    "But you know my name," he said.

    "I did know, yeah," I said. "You were Belinda, just now." I scathingly forced the dimple into my left cheek, forcing the smile onto my face- the smile even reaching my eyes; I''d smiled at people enough that even when it was fake, it was still slightly believable at the very least. "And now, you''re... something that belongs exactly where you are," I said. "In the brain and in the body of something only as low down, as wretched, as miscreant, as scum as you. Nothing is worse, nothing."

    Low down, was the understatement of the century; understatement of the millennium.

    "What planet are you from?" I said. "Where ABHORRENT corruption, pride, delusion- delusion and pride and false dominance from a fake sack of nonexistent accomplishment is all you ever brag about?"

    He looked at me, and frowned.

    Then he shifted again.

    The black walls seemed to shake, there was a sense of the invisible hands disappearing- off from where they were on my mind.

    Because: I knew who I was, and I knew a lie when I saw one.

    Guess who it was...

    "Jeff," he said, only to me, walking close to my face, looking down at me. "Jeff," he repeated. "I told you, my boy." He took a step back, and pulled out a cell phone. My cell phone.

    In one swift and lightning-fast motion, I snatched my U.S.-issued device from his right hand; I struggled inside of myself not to smash my elbow or the back of my right fist into his head as hard and as barbarously as I could- and with IGNITE- because, for all I knew, maybe he was running these show. And these two innocent people who I''d never met, were under his mercy. Possibly, thereby, mine. As I spun in the air I kept my arms tucked so as not touch him any further. He spoke his next words as I landed without a sound, both my feet and one hand on the red, subtly patterned, tile floor.

    I looked down at it.

    I''d been here...

    There he was: fully shifted.

    "Is this you?"

    And, of course, I meant you.

    "This is the actual me, yes," spoke the sociopath and psychopath; criminal and manipulator. "Imagine speaking to your father the way you spoke to me now."

    I almost puked.

    Here he was, no mask on. Strangely, he almost looked like someone I knew. The eyes were green, darker a shade of green than the pistachio-ice-cream light green shade of that ice cream I had with Kaylee on our graduation day, years ago. I didn''t remember where we bought it. Did one of the teachers buy it for us? I didn''t remember spending for it- so I guessed maybe one of the teachers bought it for us. Or maybe Carter did? The Carter that gave me the brownie, not the Carter that taught me the Americana armlock submission.

    Something was missing...

    "Something is missing, my boy," said Jeff.

    "You don''t deserve what''s in my mind," I said, "and you need to stop talking to me like..."

    "Like what?"

    "We are not related."

    He raised his eyebrows at me.

    The man who said his name was Caleb called for my attention.

    "Danny," he said, his tears mostly dried, but his eyes still conveying a heavy sense of... dread? Concern? HE was distressed, that was for sure. "I was going to tell you."

    "Yes," said Jeff. "That''s why you''re here. Because you were going to tell him."

    What? Please. "I was going to tell you?" Tell me what? I didn''t even know this guy, and the already-existing list of people pretending they knew me was a pathetically and disgustingly long one. What, tell me I had another surprise SRA coming up per order of James?

    Didn''t Connor say he wanted to tell me something...?

    I shook my head.

    Head in the fight. I was probably imagining it; I avoided the chainsmoking animal-talker, if I could.

    I think...

    Yeah, it was probably just another SRA; Connor and Belinda only ever gave me bad news, if we were working, anyway. I think the only good news Connor ever gave me was, "Congratulations, B21 is busted so James gave you special access to B14 so you can make yourself suffer from self-imposed training on weekends THERE instead!"

    "Then why is he here!?" Caleb said, pointing at the older man with the slight Port accent.

    Jeff looked at the ground, then smoothed back his sleek dark red hair with his right hand.

    He did that before, too. In the bedroom...

    "Because," said Jeff, slowly, "because nobody else can have him but me."

    I could have sworn I tasted some kind of bile at the back of my throat. Although, that partly may have been the fact that I quite recently actually vomited.

    Whatever look was on my face, it wasn''t a not-confused one; it wasn''t a not-disgusted one.

    BECAUSE I WAS DISGUSTED.

    "You see," continued Jeff, as he walked around to a panel, not unlike the one that Avyeena Paleros stood in front of when she died, when both her eyes came off and dropped to the ground in front of me as her skin and muscle and intestines turned into a pool of brown and red and black- the same kind of screen they used to test our minds and demand answers to questions that, sometimes, even I did not know the answers to.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    How I even survived...

    "You see, what?" I said.

    Jeff continued his little speech.

    I''ll say now that even without painsteal, the black streaks started to brand themselves into the skin under my eyes- not because I was taking any pain, but because I was that horribly disgusted. It was a rare occurrence. If something bothered me too much, it was the same physical symptoms of using my painsteal power.

    I remembered how James decided to start calling me "Methadone," on my second takedown assignment- it was a team takedown assignment that saw multiple agents hurt: Kaylee Davenport, Wyatt Shafer, and Lyca- she was a brawler not unlike Sam; my ability got to see a lot of action that whole week. That was a while ago; it was one of my first call signs until they "settled" on Marblefox for me. Typically, they named me after painkillers.

    "You see," he said, again, "I''m your father. And you''re my son. Nobody can have you, but me. I have the right to own you, no one else does."

    Now, I didn''t MEAN to- but it happened. My right fist collided, hard, into his face- and then it caught fire.

    "You had that coming," I said.

    He lay on the ground a moment, writhing, and then he shifted again; into Elyza- but only his one arm and face- to extinguish the fire with cold and with vapor ice. And then he stood.

    "That''s the second mistake you made," he said, seething, the venom in his words almost half the tone of mine, but with no conviction. That was the difference between us, at all times.

    "What was the first one?" I said sarcastically. "Shutting down your child sex business? Or not keeping my mouth shut and telling people what you did when I was nine? Probably the former, right?"

    --ovw--LVIII--ovw--

    "That''s the second mistake you made," he said, seething, the venom in his words almost half the tone of mine, but with no conviction. That was the difference between us, at all times.

    "What was the first one?" I said sarcastically. "Shutting down your child sex business? Or not keeping my mouth shut and telling people what you did when I was nine? Probably the former, right?"

    MONDAY

    10:44 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    In response, he shot dark black clouds of vapor in a long projectile line at me, as if in slow motion; I shielded myself with my left hand, but that was a mistake.

    My left hand, down to my wrist, immediately became dark blue, almost black, and the same little worms, tentacles, arms, started to come up from little red, oozing holes, blood and water and pus and who knew what else. Only this time- it felt like my left hand was coming off.

    This wasn''t skin. This wasn''t poison. This was unearthly, disgusting, disgust that existed only on other metaphorical planets- only inside of the man I now had to be in a faceoff with. I knew, and I only knew, I would have rather been anywhere else.

    Except- there were two innocent people who were trapped by this torturer.

    And I was wrong, too. At that time, I thought it was only two.

    "Leave him alone!" the older man yelled from his capsule. "You can have what you want! He won''t arrest you, he won''t! Do what you want, please, just leave the boy alone."

    I looked at this man and almost felt like I had met him somewhere. I''d been to the port a lot. I''d go there at midnight. There was a strange moment where I felt, again, that something, something was missing...

    Jeff smiled.

    "Okay," he said, lifting both his hands. "I''ll leave the boy alone."

    Now I was the one writhing, more so from disgust and the fact that little pieces of the oozing, blackened skin of my hand started to fall like sprinkles or salt grains onto the red floor.

    "I missed injecting you, boy."

    I said nothing.

    "And I missed injecting you in bed."

    I said nothing.

    He laughed.

    "Injecting," he said, "you in bed."

    I said nothing.

    "Tell me you miss me."

    No.

    I flipped backwards, twisting in the air, both my feet twisting and crossed into the ceiling sprinkler head- setting it on fire, and causing the ceiling high, high, high above us to start raining clean Experiment Site WDSM Diamond Mine tap water, down on us.

    It tasted like the Overwoods.

    --ovw--LIX--ovw--

    "Tell me you miss me."

    No.

    I flipped backwards, twisting in the air, both my feet twisting and crossed into the ceiling sprinkler head- setting it on fire, and causing the ceiling high, high, high above us to start raining clean Experiment Site WDSM Diamond Mine tap water, down on us.

    MONDAY

    10:47 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    It tasted like the Overwoods.

    I opened my mouth before landing, caught a spoonful of the cold, clean water in my mouth and swallowed, before twisting twice and whipping back twice upon landing and then throwing a black combat knife toward the exposed pipe above my head- and gray smoke concealed both me and the screen behind me.

    I remember how the water tasted: clean. Until Experiment Nightingale, I never even had truly clean water- real water. It was awful, to say the least- to have an experience as wonderful as clean water, or even sex, to be taken from you by these monsters.

    Strangling us wasn''t the worst thing they did- to me; to Charlotte; to Marie; perhaps to Kaylee but she won''t talk about it, nor did I see it.

    One reality that the whole world knows regardless of the lies: some people are on a throne, and their only purpose is to let all the world suffer, and to want all the world to suffer, while they sit in comfort and do everything they can just to be praised as the good guys.

    I faced the screen. I knew his password: Honorable777IAm*THE*MostRighteousAND@HONORABLE777IAmTheSaintPreacher,iamthePerfection.

    He''d use this password on his portable device and the sleek computer he''d use when he thought I was asleep. Perhaps, the one advantage that I had, the one gift that I was given, from spending nights and nights and night after night after night in his bed. This key, this password, was the one thing that helped me and also thereby Kaylee Davenport to survive.

    I don''t know if he would have spared us either way.

    But, personally, I doubt it. And it''s such a big wonder why I would, right?

    I unlocked the screen with the password and the still-memorized panel commands I entered using the touch-activated keys below it.

    And then, there were three names. Two I didn''t recognize, and one that I did.

    --ovw--LX--ovw--

    And if what tomorrow brings

    Is nothing short of the truth

    Then it''ll tell you

    That I never took the part for you

    I never played that part for you

    MONDAY

    10:47 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    And then, there were three names. Two I didn''t recognize, and one that I did.

    CALEB SAMUEL DAVENPORT

    ANTHONY DAVID MALCOLM

    DENICE LYCA ZAMBAIA

    I had to take a moment. Even though that was not possible.

    He had ZAMBAIA?

    I hadn''t seen her for a while. Denice Lyca Zambaia: like me but even more like Sam, she was a fighter, very strong and extremely athletic and employed by the Union of Stars mainly for target takedowns. She got more high-paying jobs than Sam did, because while they had similar strengths, and then even some overlapping fight styles, Denice was trained formally and usually showed more discipline, whereas... well, Sam learned on the streets and continued to fight outside of U.S. or competition affairs.

    I didn''t believe it; Denice Lyca Zambaia had a mixed martial arts record of 14-0-0, and this was outside of SRAs. Ten of them by knockout.

    How was she placed here?

    The water from the ceiling stopped at once. I thought, well- I still had the smoke from the burst pi-

    And then thorned stems wrapped around my neck from behind, immediately cutting holes and punctures into my skin and dragging me backward.

    "You''re very clever, my boy."

    Even his voice was enough to make me crawl under my skin.

    I tried to never hate anyone. And to this day, I can''t say I "hated" him; it''s just that if anything even remotely like him at all was around- much less, actually him- I just had to go far, far away.

    "IT''S GROSS," I said, "if anyone''s gonna act like they''re my dad at all, then it''s FUCKING NOT GOING TO BE YOU, of all people."

    The older man with the slicked back brown hair guffawed, but only for a moment. Almost like he found that funny- it WASN''T- and then all of a sudden thought otherwise.

    "Why don''t you check that phone you wanted back from me so badly?" said Jeff.

    "If you promise not to hurt them," I said, as I glanced over to the far corner of the dark room where I saw her- Denice. She would invite me to MMA matches until she picked up on the matter that I generally avoided all violence; and then, she invited me only if she was in one of the bouts. She truly was awesome in a fight; inside a ring or out. And I''d go, just for her.

    Because, like Kaylee, she was beautiful inside and out.

    Her brown hair was usually dyed blond- as it was in that moment- and braided and tied back in the MMA-athlete-fighter style, as I liked to call it; I didn''t know what else it was. Dutch braid? Fish braid? Cabbage braid? Infinity M?bius?

    Dragonfruit braid?

    Tomato?

    "I won''t hurt them for now." He gestured at the still-glowing screen inside my jeans pocket, opposite the one where the knives were.

    He was reading my mind and I knew it; I closed up all the entrances, set up all the barriers there possibly could be for my mind and its nuances and its resonances- if Kaylee wanted me, she''d have to call, or come down here.

    Jeff glowered at me.

    "Well, go on, then," he said. "Look at it."

    I took the phone, its face still on and glowing white with black text.

    A message- from Connor.

    --ovw--LXI--ovw--

    This could be the last time that I ever say to you that I mean it.

    - from Integrity

    MONDAY

    10:53 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    A message- from Connor.

    I glanced at the man who introduced himself as Caleb. Why I did, I didn''t know.

    Well- he didn''t really introduce himself. He assumed I knew who he was.

    As I slid my finger across the screen to scroll back up to the top of the text, I called her name- without looking backward, without turning away from this... from this abomination.

    "Denice!" I shouted.

    "Copy, Morphine."

    She still called me by my old call sign. One of them- when we did covert together.

    Something feels off

    "You okay?" I said.

    "Yeah."

    Sam lost SRAs to very few people; Lyca was one of them. I watched, but only because Sam always wanted me there- she''d give me phone calls at 2AM (when she was probably very high) to say that she needed my moral support- and then, after, I always waited at the exit gates with her favorite addictive Baker Joe''s strawberry bubble gum, Kaylee and her look of Sam-disapproval, and my double-coupons for Pacifico chocolate raisin bread.

    You know, the stuff I like to dip in the hot chocolate while other people stare.

    A new thought scratched at the back of my head.

    Wasn''t someone else there, too?

    Nope

    Someone else was there, too...

    No one else was there

    I felt like someone else was there, like there was a puzzle in my head that needed solving. In my mind I pulled up memories of Sam''s already-black eye; that other time when Carter caught her ankle in a submission hold, and I had two plastic bags full of ice with me in advance; that time she and Tiana and I won against three of the U.S.''s highest-ranked agents- which, as soon as I got the message, I knew was OBVIOUSLY for James''s ENTERTAINMENT rather than an actually useful and constructive training bout.

    I guessed maybe it was getting boring for him, to be popping stimulants all the time. All day, all night.

    The question in my head.

    But wasn''t someone else there???

    The three question marks in my head screamed at me; there was something wrong about the empty space beside me in all those memories.

    "That wasn''t empty space," said the blond man from behind the transparent wall.

    I glanced at him again. He looked like a friendlier version of my old biology teacher. Same larger build, same eyes; only the hair was slightly different, because this man''s was a perhaps a bit darker.

    I looked closely. Of all the things- I fixated on his hair.

    Only for a moment, though.

    Yeah. Maybe, like, two shades darker.

    He shook his head at me.

    "Empty space?" he repeated.

    Creepy.

    "So that''s all I am now?" he said.

    Who was he talking to?

    For just a second, I forced myself to look at Jeff.

    But I felt nothing.

    Creepy...

    But a bit attractive almost? Sort of? Maybe he knows something?

    YEAH HE KNOWS ALL OF YOUR NAMES

    Hold on. What was I thinking about?

    THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE THERE, MOVE ON

    No one else?

    No one else was where? Move on from what?

    READ THE MESSAGE ON THE SCREEN

    My eyes hyperfocused on the text on the screen; all of the people in that room- Lyca, Anthony David, Caleb Samuel, Jeff- fixated on me. The soft glow of white-and-blue light from the phone illuminated the loose strands of my hair; stray hair next to my ears and my chin and my neck; all seemingly dipped in blood. All the eyes in that black and dark red room, save for my own, were on me. My left hand- or should I say the skin on it- was only slowly un-growing the worms or tentacles; it was still murky dark blue and absolutely, horribly gross. I stared at the movement of the little worms. Maggots.

    There was nothing for me to vomit.

    Read. The message. On. The screen.

    Nightingale snatched back at me in my mind. Calling to me for my attention again.

    Voices; screams; large limbs and large hands on my small body.

    No one saved me.

    Sinister red. Everything was dark, perverse, sinister red.

    Sam often told me she would have punched all the memories in the face for me. And all of the criminals associated with them, too.

    I read the message on the screen.

    Monday

    9:31 AM

    Sent via SecureWeb

    Chris.

    Or, I should say- Daniel Tobler.

    If you get this- we''re trying to find you. We hope, and we are praying to every God that exists and even to the God that *YOU* always believed in, that you''re alive. PLEASE BE ALIVE.

    If you get this, the three of us are still making a way down to however far you dropped... And, if you''re alive, AND YOU BETTER BE BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW YOU JUMPED FROM CENTURY SPIRE AND LIVED, here''s what I wanted to... Well, what I wanted to tell you.

    I''m asking you, or I''m asking OF YOU a deal. You get to have this, but you hold on to the map, SEND IT TO US IF YOU CAN.

    Use the holograph projector and review this.

    ATTACHED

    Daniel Tobler - File, 9TB

    Reply Forward Delete

    I flipped on the holograph scanner, scanned the paper, with its creases, folds, and lines, and sent it to Sam and not Connor, carbon-copying both Kaylee and Wyatt.

    And to Connor, I replied:

    "I love you, Connor.

    Platonically. Even though I''m literally gay.

    If I acted like I hated you it''s because sometimes I did. But if I hate then that''s a reflection of me, not of you.

    This might be goodbye."

    I moved on immediately to reviewing this nine-terabyte file he text messaged to me.

    And then, of course, I wished I hadn''t.

    DANIEL TOBLER

    Recruited Age Twelve

    Birth Mother: NOT YET IDENTIFIED

    Birth Father: JEFFERY PHILIP CHRISTIAN TOBLER

    Known abilities: NONE CONFIRMED

    [UPDATE]

    Known abilities:

    STILL TO BE FIRMLY VALIDATED

    *Able to set objects on fire

    *^Yet subject is non-pyrokinetic?

    *Able to decrease pain experienced by direct contact with other individual

    *^Sacrifices self. Experiences "same" pain as that of other subject in process; other subject will not experience pain if in contact with this subject

    *^Subject does not "numb" pain, subject takes pain from other test subjects

    *Occasionally hypermobile

    *^Particularly the spine and shoulders

    [UPDATE]

    Known abilities:

    STILL TO BE FIRMLY VALIDATED

    *Telepathy

    *Flight?

    *^Not levitation. Flight is manual and must physically be executed correctly to achieve said flight

    [UPDATE]

    Birth mother: NOT VALIDATED

    *Possible match #1: HAVAILIE JENNA GRAYSON - Incarcerated for murder, drug addict, passed away in prison.

    *Possible match #2: ISABELLA MADISON GARCIA-COOPER - Incarcerated for murder, confirmed child trafficker, passed away in prison.

    *^Bodies not yet found. Cannot confirm.

    *There may be other matches.

    *^Verification may take 40 to 50 months or longer; as with 99% of all Overwoods individuals, any DNA samples have been intermixed with compound OVERWOOD-V-STIIR-B or OVRW-STRANULUS-A

    [UPDATE]

    DANIEL TOBLER AKA CHRISTOPHER MIDNIGHT

    *SAME FILE

    *All compounds/files/composites/etc. attached

    *Will pass file handling to separate division/branch due to relationship:

    *^This was initially assigned to the brother of subject''s father

    *^Tests to confirm this only completed today

    *As such, will hand off text file handling

    [UPDATE]

    *Request to be re-assigned text file handling/update compilation DENIED due to:

    *^Requesting handler

    *^1 Is previous holder of file and update collection/organization/coordination

    *^2 Requester is current handler of subject

    *^3 Requester has known substance addiction to the ff: DEPRESSANTS, STIMULANTS

    *^4 Requester was noted to be under influence of alcohol when requesting re-assignment

    *^5 Requester is related to subject

    All compiled evidence uploaded to same file.

    [UPDATE]

    Known abilities:

    *Able to set objects on fire

    *^From outside as well as from inside

    [UPDATE]

    *Request for file to be re-assigned to original holder APPROVED due to:

    *^1 Requester is permitted access and authorization to all Union of Stars agent-level files

    *^2 Requester is new head of OVERWOODS BRANCH Union of Stars

    *^3 Overriding - Requester is original file holder

    *^4 Second holder of file is presently MIA.

    *^5 Second holder of this file has not responded to messages/MIA - Status unknown - Whereabouts unknown

    [UPDATE]

    *Subject is only survivor of male control group #9

    *Subject is also only survivor from male experimental group #17

    *Subject has proven ability in combat

    *^Despite refusing to engage in said combat

    *Subject is same age as only female survivor from NIGHTINGALE.

    *^Subject has same birthday as only other survivor from NIGHTINGALE

    *^Only other survivor is DAVENPORT, Kaylee Ann.

    *ANIMAL-related experiments [MID-NIGHTINGALE, PRE-NIGHTINGALE, POST-NIGHTINGALE] were performed on subject TOBLER, Daniel

    *PLANT-related experiments [MID-NIGHTINGALE, PRE-NIGHTINGALE, POST-NIGHTINGALE] were performed on subject DAVENPORT, Kaylee Ann

    [UPDATE]

    *POST-NIGHTINGALE experiments shall be halted IMMEDIATELY

    [UPDATE]

    *Attaching scans of DNA/OVERWOOD-V-STIIR-B/OVRW-STRANULUS-A

    *Subject will be included in ANIMAL TESTING OPERATION #6 as opposed to original proposed NIGHTINGALE II

    *Female survivor will also be included

    *^DAVENPORT, Kaylee Ann

    *Rejected appeal to NIGHTINGALE II

    [UPDATE]

    *Confirming that JEFFERY PHILIP CHRISTIAN TOBLER is subject''s birth father.

    *^Birth mother still not known/confirmed

    *^Genetic tests failed

    *^DNA test results for mother''s side so far are inconclusive

    *^File holder and subject''s handler is confirmed family member of subject as father''s side uncle

    *This file holder and AGENT''s caretaker will attempt sobriety for said AGENT

    *[SIMPLE NONINVASIVE TESTING] Determined AGENT is able to detect deception (98% more accurately than peers)

    *Will place AGENT in interrogations/interviewers or criminal investigators

    *Will not approve further experimentations on AGENT.

    [UPDATE]

    *EX-SUBJECT IS NOW AGENT

    *NO FURTHER EXPERIMENTATIONS WILL BE APPROVED

    Last modified by JAMESON ADAM TOBLER

    --ovw--LXII--ovw--

    This could be the last time that I ever say to you that I mean it

    And if what tomorrow brings is nothing short of the truth

    Then it''ll tell you that I never took the part for you

    I never played that part for you

    - from Integrity

    MONDAY

    11:01 AM

    Experiment Site: WDSM Diamond Mine

    A message buzzed in, and previewed itself at the top of the holographic projections as I was presented with all of the wonderful DNA-Overwoods-Experiment-Whatever scans that absolutely delighted me, and filled me with such joy.

    I''m lying.

    "WE GOT YOUR MAP, WE KNOW YOUR LOCATION. IT''S A MIND MAZE. STAY ALIVE. - ARRVN"

    At least that map was good for something.

    If only I was good for anything...

    --ovw--

    "CHRIS."

    The voice played itself in my mind, as Lyca and Caleb Samuel and Anthony David and Jeff Tobler all stared at me; just watching my reactions.

    I responded, through my mind. There was only one person whose bond was powerful enough to break through to me, even in moments like this.

    James.

    "It''s me," I responded.

    It wasn''t possible. I saw all the proof in the world and it still wasn''t possible.

    "No, buddy, it''s possible," he said telepathically, "and it''s my fault."

    I felt nothing.

    I felt nothing, yet tears threatened to spill over my eyelashes when I spoke the only words that acknowledged the truth:

    "So you did it to me." It was a whisper. A whisper through the white and gray webs of telepathy, the ones that in my mind were now turning to water, and then to ice, and then to nothingness. "So you were there, and you knew, and you were just like them."

    In front of me there were monsters and moving cadavers with broken bones and Charlotte; Charlotte Miller''s body, exactly as thin and fragile as mine was, disfigured; broken. Dead. She was just as old as I was, and she was no more important; she was no less valuable.

    --ovw--

    Sinister red.

    Everything was dark, perverse, sinister red.

    Voices; screams; large limbs and large hands on my small body.

    No one saved me.

    Sometimes, I felt like I couldn''t see anything.

    --ovw--

    I said the words again: "So you did it to me."

    Only demons- only DEMONS from hell itself could cause children so much suffering; so much PAIN.

    Could cause the innocent to suffer to the point of not knowing who they are anymore.

    The cost of the pleasure, of the games of these people.

    To them- they are the only ones in the world.

    No one saved me.

    James paused.

    "Please be more specific," he said, like he was pleading with me to understand. To understand whatever it was, because whatever it was, I was not going to understand.

    My telepathic voice transformed into a version of itself I hadn''t heard before; a version of itself I never thought I would ever hear. I can still remember it now. It wasn''t my voice; it was a knife, it was a tower of collapsing cards all set on fire; it was the bile and the blood and the chemicals that I vomited into Jeff''s experiment bathroom sink; it was all of these things; all of the ugliness in the world combined with the fact I was yards away from a man who raped me, raped me in absolutely every sense of the word possible.

    "You want me to be more specific."

    "I had to do a lot of things."

    Yeah, I bet he did.

    I only had to pull up the memory for him to see it, and so that was what I did:

    *^Sacrifices self. Experiences "same" pain as that of other subject in process; other subject will not experience pain if in contact with this subject

    He continued. "Chris..."

    I remember now how Jeff was still smiling at me. Like he wanted me to know; he wanted for me to know.

    I don''t remember crying.

    But I do remember realizing I had fallen 500 floors to my death only to find that the truth was that I was related by blood and on paper to the two most depraved, corrupted, abnormality freaks the entire universe had ever known. Add to that my alleged mom who was a proven drug addict murderer child trafficker.

    I also remember thinking about how far I had fallen from the tree.

    Such a good thing, then, that blood never meant anything for me.

    Looks like I had done a lot of things right after all.

    --ovw--

    Now: which of the two evils did I want to get rid of first?

    Very slowly, one word at a time, my telepathic voice returned to itself, like a robot monster methodically disassembling one sheath, one gun, one piece of armor at a time; a mutated half-monstrosity from the underworlds of Experiment Nightingale removing its own limbs and its own claws.

    "Is it Chris, or is it Danny?" I said to James. I felt no connection to either of these two men; it might have been on paper, but it was not possible to feel a connection. I was 500 floors under the ground and 500 million miles from that apple tree. I had seen proof yet to me it was not possible. "You were one of them." Is it Chris, or is it Danny? I tried to swallow the thought- and the memories- and failed. "Do you choose everything for me, just like you chose all those ''tests'' you decided to run?"

    I''d done a lot of things right; it wasn''t enough for me.

    These two monsters with green eyes still existed.

    Colors in our minds, for me and James both, transformed from ice blue to gray to black to hellfire to the deepest color of red one could want; it was the color of my blood, on these very tiles. And I was a child then. All of us were, the victims. And I felt everything James felt, and vice versa, because that was how it was when the strong telepaths were connected; I could run, but I could not run; I could put up the wall but then how long would it last until I saw him?

    And the truth...

    It wasn''t from James; it didn''t come from James. It came in a nine-terabyte holographic message from Connor Meadows.

    Of all people.

    "First, I didn''t run those tests," James said in the bitterest tone I had ever heard of him to that point. "Second..." I felt his guilt through the telepathic binding; I felt his guilt. As the telepath that I am, I experienced it, and yet magically still I felt absolutely nothing at all. I didn''t know how it was possible. "I didn''t know it was you. I didn''t know who you were- just that you were an exceptional telepath and a healer-"

    "Flattering," I interrupted, beyond any respect that I used to have for the man, if any. "But I''m not even a healer, I just take pain because apparently I get to be hurt all the time while you sit in a chair and watch."

    And then I realized I hated him.

    I understood why he never told me: it was his own form of brainwashing me.

    Brainwashing me...

    Because his brother did the same thing.

    I felt it- there was apology and sincerity and a true compassion in both our minds, and all of that came from his- but I was tired. And people I cared about were near a threat.

    In our minds, he tried to continue, and then he didn''t anymore. When you know there''s no point, you don''t bother.

    "Chris," he said, almost choking on my name- the only true name I thought I knew- the name I grew to love; almost shaking but not quite, "if I could have saved you sooner-"

    Stop, I thought to no one in particular; to the whole world in general.

    I remember my exact thought at that exact moment:

    There is no point in tears now; there is no objective.

    I remember simultaneously wanting to fall apart, and wanting to hurt Mr. Jameson Adam Tobler for all of the hurt he put me through- as if that as possible; as if there was any pain to describe to him that he WATCHED while all of us suffered- but, no, wasn''t my anger misdirected?

    No. He watched children die.

    I no longer remember whose voices were in my mind; which telepaths were intervening, jumping into the blood and into the fire, if any were; maybe they were all my own cries; my own thoughts on fire and covered in my blood.

    He saved you.

    My anger is misdirected.

    I stared at the black mission style lamp''s broken pieces; I stared at the crystal chandelier above it and all of its gold and glass and the little flickering candles.

    Just like the fires. Just like the burning glass tiles.

    Kaylee still screams herself awake, just like I do. You take a step and then it''s over; you hop over the air and survive but at the cost of your body and the cost of your sanity.

    You will be in pain forever after. Because it doesn''t stop.

    Was my anger really misdirected?

    No, he stood in front of a screen while you DIED like he always does!

    My anger is misdirected.

    Or was it?

    No. He watched children die.

    He did.

    Yes. That he did.

    And he gets to live with it AS HEAD OF the Union of Stars'' Overwoods branch?

    But... wasn''t he also the one who ensured I wouldn''t be harmed any further?

    No. He watched children die.

    My

    anger

    is

    misdirected.

    But wasn''t he also the one who watched while his brother raped me and touched me and pushed me and yelled at me?

    RAPED ME IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD???

    Destroyed me and every part of me.

    My anger is misdirected. It must be misdirected... it has to be misdirected. He saved me.

    There was nothing left; I had nothing left.

    Red hair.

    I always hated red hair. I even hate his hair.

    Wasn''t he someone who stared and kept reports and filed papers and signed warrants and signed approvals on things that could have taken my life, at twelve, all in the name of bettering conditions only for people who already had more than all of us?

    Anthony David- the older man, in the other capsule- started to slam his fists on the transparent divide. His mouth was moving.

    But I heard nothing.

    He was getting drunk and shooting drugs up his arms for a high while his brother was abusing, violating, corrupting you.

    I blinked blood and water off my eyes.

    They have red hair; I even hate their hair. They are the same person.

    THEY ARE THE SAME.

    They were not the same. Were they?

    THEY ARE THE SAME

    "You can''t hate me like this, Chris," James''s voice echoed in my head.

    He''s begging you just like you begged him to stop, thousands and thousands and thousands of times.

    Hundreds.

    Of thousands. Of times.

    You can''t hate me like this, he said.

    One of the candles fell from the chandelier I had been looking at; its wax was black and it transformed into an oily pool of lurid, reflective, shiny blood the second it hit the dark red marble floor. Reflective and shiny like a gas leak, but red now; not black.

    Sinister red.

    In the reflection on the floor, I saw Charlotte Miller''s face; her dislocated shoulders were not completely concealed by the ropes. The angles of the bones were severely disjointed; troublesome to anyone''s eyes- both arms going entirely backwards; the blackness of Jeff''s nonexistent soul the exact same blackness of Charlotte''s now-empty eye sockets.

    They choked her to death.

    Yes. They did that, in front of me.

    And she was NOT the only victim, and Marie was there, and Kaylee was there.

    No, she wasn''t the only victim- not the only child-turned-to-dead-body at all in that three month torture plan. Not by a long shot.

    What was it that James said? You can''t hate me like this, Chris. That''s what James said.

    I smiled a twisted smile, and shook my head; I did both these things slowly.

    "Yes," I said. "I can."

    In gymnastics, you''re rewarded for the difficulty of what you do. What did you perform- how hard was it? People who throw the biggest, most potentially dangerous, most difficult skills- they are the ones that usually earn a medal; they are the ones that are rewarded.

    Someone once told me that life is the exact same way.

    But, at the time, I could not fathom what the possible reward could be for all of the harm that I had been put through.

    --ovw--

    A million potential reactions- from begging Jeff to kill me, to asking Lyca to destroy the cylinder/chamber/trap/thing she was in (I think she was in mine, actually, and Anthony David was in Kaylee''s), to simply laughing and doing a triple twist on two injured legs- ran through my mind. At the same time, the odd man called Caleb Samuel Davenport started to hum a tune. It was a beautiful tune; a really, really pretty melody that I could listen to for days. And I was so fascinated by his eyes, even though their color literally reminded me of the ice-covered sidewalk that I once slipped on.

    ORBIPLOSIONS

    Orbiplosions?

    What''s that all about?

    And then suddenly I realized the entire tune he was humming was literally A SONG THAT I WROTE.

    How???

    How does he know my song?

    I kept seeing Charlotte choked to her death in front of me.

    This shit mad gully bro and literally I''m not even Sam like WTF???

    I kept seeing how her bones were forcefully snapped out of the right places. No, PUSHED, right out of the right places.

    HOW

    I heard again the tightening of the cord on her neck and around her shoulders. I heard it. The most bizarre, nauseating, bloodcurdling yet inconspicuous sound. Followed by the sounds that were made of the grinding misalignment of her own bones.

    It was my name she screamed. My name, before she died. And it wasn''t just her, too.

    Like- I would ONLY share that kind of info WITH A REALLY GOOD FRIEND OR PARTNER!

    I heard Marie call out my name. Not once. Not twice. Not thrice. Again, again, again, again. And at night. Every night, in my sleep.

    Kaylee also screamed my name. But... did I save her? Was I able to save the girl who was my best friend?

    She was my only friend, wasn''t she?

    Was Kaylee my only friend?

    Aren''t you forgetting Sam?

    What night of Nightingale is this?

    WHAT NIGHT

    OF NIGHTINGALE

    IS THIS

    HOW???

    I put three fingers on my neck to feel my pulse.

    I felt nothing.

    --ovw--

    I feel nothing.

    Why

    do I

    feel nothing

    I breathed in slowly through my mouth, and out slowly through my mouth. I counted to three.

    "Chris," James said, slowly. "You know I care about you." He paused. "You know this."

    Does he ever run out of bullshit?

    Apparently not, right?

    Whose SHIT has he been smoking?

    I paused.

    ...you don''t want the answer to that

    "This piece of shit''s your brother?" I said.

    At that point, to me, the last conversation didn''t happen, because there was a threat to the lives of people I cared about- people who actually, truly, genuinely showed that they cared about me. The thought of how close Kaylee was to this man they called Jeffery Philip Christian Tobler made me shudder; the movement sent spikes of pain through my neck and shoulder and hand and leg and entire body.

    Do I have to kill him to keep my friends from getting hurt?

    I wasn''t going to kill him.

    No.

    No.

    Maybe Sam could do that, if absolutely needed...

    She would. She was always prepared to kill when needed. And she always did everything she could to protect me. People like her, people like Tiana, people as hurt as Emberion, the good and possibly the last good people are why I fight.

    I can''t kill.

    But if Kaylee comes here and he tries anything, anything at all-

    But I knew exactly what things he was capable of doing and three innocent people were right in front of me, all in his trap.

    Just like all of us kids were in his trap, when Kaylee and I were kidnapped. Taken and murdered. Because he murdered all of us.

    And I knew right then, though I didn''t know how much of the battle was won or lost, that to go near this man at all would require more of me than I could possibly ever ask of myself.

    "Older brother," James replied. I''d almost forgotten I even asked him a question. "Yup."

    "Why didn''t you kill the damned thing?"

    "I tried."

    "I''m arresting him."

    "Chris," he said.

    We both felt my flare of anger.

    "Jameson Adam Tobler," I replied.

    He laughed, telepathically, BECAUSE LIKE OMG, IT WAS SO FUNNY.

    "Wait for the others to get there. Sam, Elyza-"

    "Elyza isn''t here."

    "That''s where you''re wrong. You think she''d abandon the world''s brightest night sky at a time like this?"

    I shifted my eyes- slowly, carefully, politely- off of Jeff, and to the transparent divides that were the capsules, the ones holding Caleb Samuel and Anthony David in place.

    Davenport. And Malcolm.

    Malcolm...

    I felt a pinching sensation at the back of my head, near where my ponytail was. I took the elastic bands off for the time being.

    Two separate cylinders; knowing my own experience from Nightingale, I doubted there was much in my power to break them. But maybe Lyca...

    My gaze shifted to the dark red marble floor.

    It was so beautiful. So shiny. And so twisted at once.

    And I''d seen it before.

    What did he say? The world''s brightest night sky?

    What on earth did that even mean?

    "That''s you, buddy."

    What?

    I heard James''s telepathic sigh. "It''s a compliment," he said. "Midnight."

    "So, Elyza Cobb is on the way?" I said.

    "Yup. Your very favorite Liquid Nitrogen is on the way."

    He paused.

    "So am I," he said. "And so is Tiana."

    I put the elastic bands back on my hair, smearing blood on the long black wisps while I tied them.

    "Ambervi?" I said.

    "Yes."

    Slowly, I dropped to my knees- and then on my butt- and sat there on the floor with the phone still flashing its text and glowing blue with its holographic images in my right hand. The left hand was...

    UGH

    How long did it take for me to recover from that one part of Nightingale again...?

    "Myelantic is bringing the poison antidote to you. Hang on."

    "MYELANTIC?"

    "Who else is the drug expert?" James asked. A question as a response to my question.

    I looked at my left hand. I shook my head again.

    Orbiplosions.

    Vaguely, I recalled a blinding, white flash of light. Somewhere in the past. I couldn''t quite place it. Maybe it was the memory of a bad dream.

    Bad dreams...

    I shook my head again.

    I get lots of those.

    I also recalled what I saw in that file.

    ANIMAL-related experiments [MID-NIGHTINGALE, PRE-NIGHTINGALE, POST-NIGHTINGALE] were performed on subject TOBLER, Daniel

    Yeah, well. I knew I was a corgi.

    PLANT-related experiments [MID-NIGHTINGALE, PRE-NIGHTINGALE, POST-NIGHTINGALE] were performed on subject DAVENPORT, Kaylee Ann

    Explains why she''s a peashooter.

    Shut up

    Hands on the back of my head...

    Hands on my mind hands on my mind

    Well- she really was a peashooter. Wait, what did James say to me?

    I looked at him.

    "You," I replied.

    Jeff still looked like he was going to have the time of his life. And for all I knew at that time, maybe he really was going to.

    "Oh. Well, yes, Emberion is also on the way there."

    Jeff and I locked eyes; we surveyed each other''s statures. He was a tall man, his hair unlike James''s and unlike mine, save perhaps for its length, which like mine, I never bothered to think about. I was two-and-a-half feet tall and about to be absolutely destroyed by a murderer molester abuser giant.

    One who had no conviction. One who lied, to everyone, about everything.

    I put out the blaze on my left hand. I didn''t even realize it had set itself on fire again.

    "I''ll do this on my own," I said to James. Even to myself I sounded like a robot. A robot who was dying, or one who wanted to die.

    James said nothing.

    Do robots die?

    Or maybe I sounded already dead- it was barely a telepathic whisper.

    I cleared my throat physically. I repeated myself telepathically.

    "I''ll do this on my own," I said.

    "You''re an idiot," said James.

    I shook my head again. "How did you even know how to-"

    "The map."

    That one map.

    Okay.

    "And how did you-"

    "As soon as you sent it to Kaylee, Caleb sent it to practically everyone in the Union of Stars," said James, "which already presents a hazard in itself. But as soon as this man figures..." He trailed off.

    Which man?

    Figures what?

    "You mean your sociopath psychopath brother?" I said. "And do you mean ''Caleb'' like-" I glanced at Caleb Samuel. "Like, Caleb Samuel Davenport? Like the guy here? Is he related to Kaylee in some way?"

    "They''re related. And yes," said James, "as soon as he figures out that he can''t have you, he kills you, kills himself maybe, and a whole lot of other people in the process."

    That made sense but it also didn''t.

    "What the fuck are you talking about?"

    I actually said that word...

    "You''re his endgame," said James.

    What?

    "How do you know that?" I responded.

    How did he know that?

    Maybe he just knows his brother really well.

    Right? What else could it be?

    I knew Jeff was going to kill me. That''s exactly what I was banking on.

    "Chris," James said. "I''m not letting him kill you. I''m not letting him hurt you."

    Oh, really?

    "Too late," I said. "But thanks for the thought."

    Stop reading my mind, you powerful telepath idiot.

    "You still in there, Morphine?" yelled Lyca, physically, from her capsule. I turned to her and nodded, subtly. Slowly. It was as quick as I could respond at that time at least.

    How does he know this?

    "Answer the question, James," I said. "And don''t make it like the stuff you wrote into my file."

    I watched Anthony David attempt to set fire to the glass capsule he was in- I had no idea he was pyrokinetic. I raised my eyebrows and blinked a few times. He didn''t seem like a pyrokinetic; like the kid in class I knew from second grade who blew up a frog in a science experiment.

    Marie was there...

    But the glass capsule didn''t catch fire; it didn''t break Anthony out.

    Jeff laughed.

    I didn''t see that pyrokinetic kid at Nightingale. Either he wasn''t selected or wasn''t there- which is extremely unlikely, as almost all of the kids in our age bracket were in that experiment- or he was killed by Jeff and James and their high-ranking mainland US counterparts really early into the experiment. Or maybe he was in another experiment?

    "James," I repeated.

    He hesitated.

    "Because you were my endgame, too, once."

    --ovw--LXIII--ovw--

    "Because you were my endgame, too, once."

    MONDAY

    11:03 AM

    WDSM DIAMOND MINE - JEFFERY PHILIP CHRISTIAN TOBLER''S UNDERGROUND EXPERIMENTATION/TORTURE HOUSE*

    Status: Available

    *Or so I called it.

    Oh, wait.

    That''s actually what it was.

    Hah. Go me.

    --ovw--

    "Because you were my endgame, too, once."

    I wasn''t sure what that meant.

    "What-"

    "Don''t ask."

    "I am asking."

    "Chris, buddy, there''s a lot I have to explain to you."

    "No shit. Question one: who was that man, that gave me that map years ago?"

    "That may have been me."

    "WHAT?"

    "We''ll talk about it later."

    I was a PTSD pie from Baker Joe''s with extra strawberry topping. I was a marshmallow on a spinning diamond plate.

    "Your jokes were never funny," I said, mostly to myself, really. Almost. Sort of. I continued. "Question two: This Caleb guy sent it to everyone in the Union of Stars? How?"

    That was when a giant rock- yes, a giant rock- smashed through the far wall, just beside Lyca, and effectively forced more incandescent light from Jeff''s ginormous living room (which was still just like it was back in Nightingale- full of beautiful, warm, orange light and fireplaces) into this oversized torture cell.

    That was when I saw them- Tiana Ambervi, and Emberion Myelantic.

    I continued to speak En Telepathe to James.

    "Dude. How did they-?"

    "They were already on the way there. As soon as you... attempted suicide Kaylee notified everyone."

    I said nothing.

    And then, I said:

    "Oh. Thanks."

    "I''ll let her know."

    "I''m about to engage. Any further instructions?"

    "Do NOT engage."

    I rolled my eyes. Jeff was still smiling at me. He was, as he usually was with me at least- delighted. Almost like he was looking at a meal. Almost like how delighted I typically get whenever I see French toast, or how delighted I typically get whenever I see practically any dog (especially corgis, because they are adorable and they are happiness), or how delighted I typically get to see Sam or Kaylee on or after a bad day.

    Except a very disgusting, exploitative, predatory version of it.

    I''m literally a marshmallow. Ugh. Like, go find a sandwich or something if you''re hungry!

    Why am I-

    Hands. Hands at the back of my head.

    I shook my head.

    I''m a bit dizzy...

    I realized he''d been staring at me just standing there for quite some time, actually, just... standing there breathing really hard. I made the mistake of looking at his pants.

    "Do not engage why?" I asked James. "I mean, apart from the fact he doesn''t even try to be an appealing predator, like, at all?"

    Not the point. But ugh. I mean, he kinda tried- like. Sometimes. I guessed.

    "You remember those explosions and white flashes of light?"

    "Yeah."

    "That was him."

    I immediately put a hand up, and toward Ember and Tia, to signal to them to stop. They stopped where they were, Tia hopping off ember''s back and and manipulating the rocky, earthy, rubble that she could- flipping them over on the ground like you would an egg or a piece of meat on a frying pan.

    Tiana "Tia" Ambervi: Earth Manipulation. Or, as she liked to call it, "Earthbending." Or, as I liked to call it, "VROOM VROOM SMASH BRING DA HAUS DOWN!!!"

    Not literally, of course. Don''t do that. Don''t destroy houses.

    Not like I had one...

    "Tell me, my boy," piped Jeff, "do you know these three lovely individuals I''ve selected so carefully, just for you?"

    "I know Lyca," I said.

    Why are you answering?

    WHY ARE YOU ANSWERING-

    "I mean, Denice," I said. "Denice Lyca Zambaia. We do know each other."

    Jeff''s smile carved deeper lines into his face. He was almost attractive.

    Almost.

    "And what about these two... disgusting men-"

    He literally just called them lovely.

    Wait, wait.

    I''m a bit dizzy...

    Is that what he said?

    That''s what he said, right?

    "...do you happen to know them?"

    Nice of him to say that. You know, if I thought about it... he was lovely, too. In his own way.

    Jeff nodded, almost in approval of my last thought.

    NO WAIT HOLD ON A SECOND

    "I..." I paused. "I think they might work in the Webwork... for the Union of Stars." When was the last time I ate? "I don''t know them really beyond that, and I''m not really even sure... that I''ve... bumped into them."

    This place is pretty.

    ORBIPLOSIONS.

    Another voice in my head, a male voice. But so blurry; so muffled by the water; so muted by the rain; so stifled by the heat. "I am not letting him do this to you again."

    Who? Do what? WHAT WATER? WHAT RAIN?

    WHAT HEAT?!

    ORBIPLOSIONS.

    Caleb looked like the kind of guy Wyatt would hang out with. It was just one big UGH- like UGH, almost a red flag, or to me it was. I''d stay away from nine out of ten people that looked like that or gave me that vibe. Although his voice was actually quite nice, to me at least.

    But he wasn''t speaking anymore.

    ORBIPLOSIONS.

    That voice sounded like me.

    But what on earth is an orbiplosion?

    Another voice this time; the same voice from earlier.

    "Hang on, buddy," it said. "I got you." Who? Who got me? That sounded scary. But I knew who it was... and yet I didn''t? If you can imagine one moment walking down a street you''ve walked down a million times, and then THE VERY NEXT instant you are in a place you don''t recognize; no idea where or who you are. Or you know but you just can''t get to it. That was how it felt.

    And sometimes, I hate that I still remember it.

    "Just hold on. We''re saving you from this, so JUST HOLD ON."

    Saving you from this? Bullshit. No one ever saved or helped me- no one EVER did. I always hated whenever people pretended they had helped me- in any way- when they never, ever, ever did.

    I saved you

    Don''t bother.

    WHO THE FUCK TRIES TO BRAINWASH PEOPLE?

    I can''t-

    Just don''t bother for right now; he won''t remember you. You''ll only make it worse. I know how it feels.

    Why were there voices in my head? Why were there so many of them?

    Okay, I don''t know where I am.

    I like sunflowers

    Well, this is probably what I get for even THINKING about Wyatt-

    THIS SHIT MAD GULLY BRO

    The older man, in the other transparent capsule, looked like a nice guy. I remember thinking that maybe he had a family; maybe a son and daughter and a bunch of dogs and cats at home, all waiting for him to come back.

    I have to save this man.

    "It''s like I''m not even here!" blubbered the guy in the first transparent capsule- Caleb Samuel Davenport- for whatever reason. My ears practically recoiled at the volume. "This can''t be; it isn''t possible!"

    He and I locked eyes before he spoke again.

    This really weird, insane stranger has like SUPER NICE eyes like the color like wow

    If only he didn''t give me the creepy Wyatt Shafer vibes.

    "This isn''t possible," he repeated, but softly that time. The very opposite of the way he said it the first time. I had no idea what was so confusing to him. We lived in the Overwoods- fucked up shit happened all the time, left and right and and up and down and center. But I also knew I was there to kill every evil and destroy the scum, in any and all of their forms.

    That gave me a moment.

    Why do I... do I normally think like this? No, I probably didn''t. And the man was still talking.

    "I... I can''t believe this," he said in some sort of tone of disbelief- disbelief that I couldn''t really explain.

    He can''t believe what?

    I can.

    So, the guy is trapped in a fancy glass cell, underground, in the Overwoods. He whines like Sam did at age four. Was he born yesterday?

    Damn.

    That''s a really fucked up thought, I''m sorry, I don''t know why I''m thinking like this-

    THAT''S STILL NOT WHAT I MEANT

    Shut the fuck up bro I didn''t whine LIKE THAT

    Hands on the back of my head

    Also, it''s not a glass cell.

    WHERE IS ELYZA?!

    Hands on my mind, hands on my mind

    But that wasn''t possible, was it?

    Hands on my mind...

    I like sunflowers

    Just when I thought miss orange sunshine was the only one who thought about flowers.

    I DON''T think about flowers.

    She''s lying.

    "I feel really sick," I suddenly blurted out, to no one really- but everyone standing near me heard it; I didn''t know why I was even saying it to start with. "Can you all stop thinking so loud and so much?" I touched my fingers to my eyebrows. Why was there so much blood on them. Really fresh blood, too. "It''s starting to hurt."

    That was a lie. Starting to hurt? STARTING TO HURT? I was IN SO MUCH PAIN ALREADY.

    "I lied," I said out loud to no one. "I literally lied; I''m already in pain. Like, a lot of it. But... why is everyone thinking so much?"

    DO YOU SEE WHAT HE''S DOING TO HIM?

    This is JEFFERY PHILIP CHRISTIAN TOBLER we''re talking abo-

    Wait a second.

    WAIT. A. SECOND-

    There are hands on my mind and I can hear thoughts.

    You always hear thoughts.

    Wait, no he doesn''t.

    His own? Just like we all hear ours?

    I''m kinda dizzy...

    WHERE IS ELYZA?

    Y''all, he''s probably just hungry???

    I can guarantee you that he is absolutely NOT JUST HUNGRY.

    I''m here.

    Shit.

    I don''t think he even remembers telepathic shield...

    Telepathic shield?

    A barrier, Chris. Can you remember how to use a telepathic barrier?

    Well. Uhm. Like, I knew what a barrier was?

    Like, you know, when there''s, like, traffic or a flood and you, like, put sandbags around something?

    Right?

    Maybe telepathic guard? Maybe he remembers it like that?

    Telepathic guard? What''s a telepathic guard?

    He is literally the smartest idiot in the world right now.

    I swear that comment still makes me cry to this day.

    What did Kaylee do to get her memories back?

    You know, because it''s honestly the nicest compliment I''ve ever received.

    Corgi corgi corgi boing boing boing boing

    That''s THE PROBLEM, y''all- only CHRIS knows!!!

    Does it looks like he knows if all he''s thinking about is corgis

    And Kaylee doesn''t?

    NO I DON''T MISS I-PUNCH-EVERYTHING-ON-EARTH-TO-GET-MORE-DRUGS-AND-I-THINK-IT-MAKES-ME-SO-COOL

    I swear I should''ve hit more of that dope yesterday

    I know someone who''s selling.

    THAT IS ILLEGAL how have y''all not lost y''all''s jobs

    Fever dream, fever dream, it was a fever dream.

    Because, it HAD to be a fever dream.

    Christopher Midnight, this is NOT a fever dream, so just HOLD ON.

    Maybe they were all just my own thoughts, from a half-entered-into dream; maybe I was so tired that I was falling into a half-sleeping state- right there, on my feet, and in front of THE actual Mr. Tobler.

    Well, the ONE Mr. Tobler.

    Because there was another one...

    Another one where?

    I focused my eyes on the older man. He stared straight back at me, but somehow it wasn''t uncomfortable.

    He has a family he has to go home to, is what I remember thinking to myself. He has a family he has to go home to... so I have to save him.

    But I can barely think. I''m not sure why; I''m usually good at mental vigilance. Hypervigilance even.

    EVEN with zero food, zero sleep, and blood loss. Wait, where did I put my stuffed husky again?

    I shook my head. And wow, did shaking my head HURT.

    Do ONE THING right, I thought to myself. GET THIS MAN BACK TO HIS HOME AND HIS FAMILY. I always wondered what that might be like. Having a house at all, a family at all.

    Wait, was the ground even here? Somehow, it didn''t feel like it. Certainly not to me. I felt like the ground beneath me was moving; I felt like I probably had to hold on to something or else I was going to fall- for the millionth time.

    My gaze dropped to the floor.

    Dark red tile...

    "Chris," said James''s voice telepathically.

    His telepathic voice was one I was trained to recognize. Or maybe when you hate someone you make yourself recognize their voice no matter what, so you can avoid it. Maybe that or he just made it so clear and so forceful. As much anger as I felt, there was no way I could deny that he was a powerful telepath.

    Perhaps even as strong as his brother-

    "What?" I responded.

    "I got a surprise for ya."

    --ovw--LXIV--ovw--

    "I got a surprise for ya."

    MONDAY

    11:04 AM

    A total mess, somewhere below ground level. UGH

    But at least with some friends around me

    Status: Available

    "I got a surprise for ya."

    "No thanks," I said.

    "Look up."

    I looked above us, and as I did, Tia and Lyca and Ember did the same- there he was: James, flying down fast, or should I say descending, passing flawlessly through what looked to me like semi-translucent black-and-gold barriers which looked like glass- some of which were broken... possibly by me- as he manipulated the material effortlessly and practically surfed toward us on an invisible wave of telekinetic power and brilliance; beneath the soles of his shoes a thin pane of what to me... was either really really shiny glass or some kind of actual diamond. I remember thinking that he looked like a drunk skateboarder, magically floating down from the top of a large theater.

    That''s some description.

    Corgi corgi corgi boing boing boing boing

    Except, I didn''t know if skateboarders were real; I only saw them in magazines and picture books from the library.

    I smiled.

    And then I remembered where I was.

    At that moment, an elegant blond woman walked, in light blue stilettos and aquamarine glasses, gracefully from the foyer to the living room to this chamber, and she beamed at Jeff.

    Wow, she is breathtaking

    You''re gay, for CRYING OUT LOUD, YOU''RE GAY

    Yes I am but I''d still marry her

    Who on earth was so bothered that I liked ELYZA?

    Oh, yeah... I knew her name. Elyza. Elyza Jacobs, was it? It would''ve been hard for me to forget the name of someone I found so attractive.

    THE ONE WHO KISSED YOU!

    What?

    THE ONE WHO KISSED YOU THE NIGHT YOU GOT THE FIRST TEXT MESSAGE.

    I like sunflowers

    Elyza COBB. COBB!!!

    Wait, what first text message?

    Doesn''t matter. Kissing is not the only thing we did, and you don''t even remember!

    T M I

    Corgi corgi corgi boing boing boing boing I eat bread.

    Pulling up in dat whip, I done dat dumb shit

    THAT SONG ROCKS

    See? THE Christopher Danny Midnight gets my taste in music. I love u my bro.

    He''s brainwashed.

    I love u more, Sam :DDDD

    BUT HE''S GAY

    YES I AM

    "Pleased to see you again, Jeffery." Her voice was cool; not calm exactly; just... pleased almost.

    "Hi, Liquid Nitrogen," I said, even though she literally wasn''t even talking to me. I wondered if she liked my new-but-not-even-new look. Bloody, thin, and starving. Very stylish indeed. I ran a hand through my hair to put more blood on it.

    "Hey," she said to me, and then, to Jeff, "Your little shifting-glass puzzle was much too easy to decode, Jeff. I can see why you had to set them on fire. The kids would''ve all lived otherwise."

    Jeff didn''t respond. He was, apparently, too fixated on James. They glared at each other. I wasn''t even sure if glared was the right word at all- they were staring daggers at each other. Yet, at the same time, it wasn''t the most obvious thing in the world. I could just tell by very, very subtle shifts in their eye and body movement; their posture. Almost like two large wolves sizing each other up, not engaging, not making any sound.

    Wolves or clownfishes, anyway. Swimming around in a slow circle.

    Another message buzzed in. I didn''t tap on it; I just quickly glanced at the notification preview at the top of the holographic display.

    "ONE MORE LAYER TO GO. SAM WILL GET THERE FIRST AS ALWAYS. - ARRVN"

    Corgi boing boing boing boing boing

    What? Who was that, wand what did they mean by-

    Corgi.

    Boing boing boing boing boing.

    Dogs are happiness

    Dogs are happy

    Happy = dog

    Cute = dog

    I hate Wyatt

    I couldn''t shut my mind up.

    And to be clear, I don''t think I hated him. Or maybe I did; it just wasn''t worth thinking about.

    A stab of pain started in my left hand- near the wrist and metacarpals- and traveled up my shoulder to the muscles on the left side of my neck. Where did that pain come from?

    The pain was so bad; I stopped and I thought about it. That pain had to come from something, somewhere. A training injury? From gymnastics? Possibly... I flexed my fingers, slowly, on both hands.

    If it was from a recent fall, I probably would have felt it sooner than this- not just out of the blue; not just now.

    Where did that pain come from?

    Perplexed, I took a breath. I counted down from five. I didn''t know how, or why, but I felt the answer to that question was an important one. I didn''t want to, but I asked myself again.

    Where did that pain come from...?

    The flash of a memory. An ugly one.

    Maybe you can guess which.

    I still don''t know to this day (not for sure anyway) but a PTSD flashback... possibly served us all well, maybe just that one time.

    Who knows?

    Because suddenly I remembered what a telepathic guard was.

    "Kaylee, no engaging," I said, super duper quickly, telepathically- perhaps the most rushed I had ever ever sounded in any telepathic conversation. "Tell her NOT to engage. I''m talking about Sam; DO NOT ENGAGE. If you''re with the cute raccoon and the cute doggo- tell them to NOT go down here. I mean- tell Connor to tell them that. Radio silence, out."

    This was all I said, and then I got up, and offhandedly walked over to a counter with a barstool and several sets of expensive wineglasses. Beside them: Vystir poisoning antidotes.

    Yep. Just the ones I had to bargain for with James not that long ago...

    Well, I supposed if you considered how much had happened in that one year alone then maybe it REALLY WAS that long ago.

    The only thing there that still reminded me of where I was, who I was with, and who my real friends were... was the physical pain.

    So I had to hold on to it; I had to hold on to it to survive this. Tobler was by far the only man I knew who had the power of mind control; the power to brainwash. Or, in my case, attempt to brainwash. I knew that in moment I was losing, but for how long?

    If I looked over my shoulder- which I did- I saw the deep red carpet that lead to that now-open red door which led into the midnight-sky-and-stars bedroom. As horrible as it was, a small part of me had to admire the design of this place. I could see the glow of that same lava lamp from where I sat elevated on the barstool.

    --ovw--LXV--ovw--

    If I looked over my shoulder- which I did- I saw the deep red carpet that lead to that now-open red door which led into the midnight-sky-and-stars bedroom. As horrible as it was, a small part of me had to admire the design of this place. I could see the glow of that same lava lamp from where I sat elevated on the barstool.

    MONDAY

    Still 11:04 AM

    Party at the torture place.

    Status: Available

    Party my butt.

    As Kaylee rightly foreshadowed, Sam was next to arrive; she entered in a similar fashion as James- and I think possibly I- did, straight down through those black-and-gold semi-translucent glass barriers. She zipped past the already-created openings and holes (YOU''RE WELCOME SAM) and immediately stood beside me at the counter and poured herself a glass of... what looked like some kind of dark red wine.

    "Sam," I whispered.

    "WHAT?" she hissed at me. "I can''t ''engage,'' right?" She was being discreet and yet also very sarcastic, or so it seemed to me anyway. "How else am I gonna have fun?"

    Kaylee and Connor- fully visible- walked down from a grand, curved, polished dark-wood styled staircase that extended from somewhere above the living room, right beside the foyer and their absolutely, absolutely breathtaking fireplaces. Connor''s face was bleeding, and Kaylee''s leg was wrapped heavily in stielvine. The warm glow from the fires undulated off their bloody upright bodies like slowly, subtly flashing combustiflies on those totally unpredictable fall nights- because, in the Overwoods, there was no scheduled fall. Fall happened overnight, and whenever it wanted to.

    Kaylee and Connor stopped where they stood, about four feet away from Tiana Ambervi and Emberion Myelantic.

    I stared at the carpet in front of them. At a very specific spot on the carpet, in fact- and like I thought, almost disguised by the colors but not quite, the slight smears of my blood which I tried but never could quite wash out completely (yes, Jeff made me wash my own blood off his floors) were all still there.

    And, here, in this place, as I spoke the words "Sam, put that down, that''s probably literally my blood from years ago," I had to process all that had been in front of me in the last couple of hours, alone. From the Talon I had no idea existed outside the areas near V8, to the alleged individual that looked like me in some way or shape or form, that the Talon somehow thought might experiment on them again- WHICH STILL BRUISED MY EGO BECAUSE THAT MADE NO SENSE it being me- to the man I let die, to the seventh or eighth failed suicide attempt. Officially, probably the fifth if you count only the ones after En Gail.

    Nightingale.

    Sorry. I try.

    Ahem. So there we all were, for a moment, quietly all assessing each other, perhaps aware of just how much damage, both physically and otherwise, that this one Jeffery Philip Christian Tobler was capable of causing. The story to it all... I was only just still about to find out.

    Or so I thought. Because, as with a lot of things in life or so it seemed to me anyway, things took time.

    And he had such a... such a nice, nice looking name too. Jeffery Philip Christian Tobler- that could be a CEO of a... a... bank or a charity or even a hospital or a rehab facility for sports injuries, or something. Anything.

    Yet, here he was. The man that abused me. This... this was what he CHOSE instead.

    I got up.

    "Chris, stay back."

    I kept walking.

    "I only have a question," I said, as behind me Sam took a sip and immediately put the glass down and looked like she was going to throw up. I was probably right- it probably really was my blood from years ago. "Jeff, you in Nightingale and the man that used me back in the Lowdown, years ago... I-" I took a quick breath, tried to compose myself, and yet felt like I was about to drop a thousand feet down into the earth again- "I know you''re can''t be Belinda. But are you the same as the man that used me as a CHILD INCOME SOURCE in my childhood years, in the Lowdown?"

    Marshmallow on a spinning plate, marshmallow on a spinning plate.

    Happy place happy place

    Happy place

    "Chris, you got it," said Kaylee''s voice, only to me telepathically- in the split moment I forgot to keep my guard up from the relentless attacks of the awful PTSD and memories and flashbacks and... the FACT that this man was in front of me.

    Did I say "man?"

    Apologies.

    MONSTER. SOULLESS.

    GARBAGE.

    ABOMINATION.

    I put my mental/telepathic guard up immediately just as soon as I could- but not before someone else threw a thought in there, and it was Caleb Samuel.

    Don''t say you forgot how I kissed you-

    UGH. UGH, WHAT?

    SHUT UP! I said telepathically, closing them all out once more. I heaved a sigh.

    What was up with all these crazy people around me? I would never kiss that guy, he''s disgusting, like, ew!

    Ew ew ew ew ew ewwwwww

    I flexed my fingers and cleared my throat, softly, quietly. But in the quiet of this chamber, still, all could hear. You could even hear that strange, subtle, very subtle snap of the bone and ligaments in my left hand which still happened every single time I moved it; it was audible only in a large, echoey room full of silence.

    "I asked a question," I said.

    "Yes, Midnight," answered his brother- James. "That was him. Half the time, it was him. The other... the other half, that was someone else."

    "So the actual guy," I said.

    "Yeah." James looked at me, for only a moment, and I could have sworn there were actual tears in his eyes. "The man standing in front of you now just took advantage of that."

    "You mean the abomination."

    "Say what you want about me, son, you are still mine at the end of the d-"

    "AT THE END OF THE DAY ONE OF US WILL BE DEAD," I said, interrupting, "AND I DON''T CARE IF IT''S ME." And then, there, in front of all my friends and my worst, absolute worst enemy- I began to cry. "I don''t care if it''s me. I just want to be in a world that does not have you in it."

    And, apparently, those were the words that destroyed him.

    --ovw--LXVI--ovw--

    The words I spoke:

    "I just want to be in a world that does not have you in it."

    <u>And, apparently, those were the words that destroyed him.</u>

    I know what evil looks like.

    And it''s the ugliest thing you can possibly ever look at on this planet.

    --ovw--

    Some pages of these red notebooks seem to be torn out, and missing...

    But this pen is awesome!

    So tell me now

    Does it fix you?

    So tell me now,

    why you always want to die

    Tell me now, does it fix you?

    When your every word

    is made up;

    just a lie.

    Tried to sell us what you never believed in

    Tried to sell us what you don''t even believe in

    --ovw--

    So tell me now

    Does It Fix You

    --ovw--

    MONDAY

    11:07 AM

    Party at the torture place. Shit was hitting the fan here- like, TOTALLY, REALLY hitting the fan. This was NOT good.

    Status: Available

    And one of the FREAKS trapped in a human-sized cylindrical capsule for experiments of torture behind me, apparently, had no other things to consume his mind AT THAT AMAZING MOMENT OF EVERYONE''S TERROR- apart from pretending that he kissed me OR THAT I KISSED HIM.

    What else could have possibly gone wrong after, right?

    Spoiler alert: WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

    Spoiler alert: Oh God please no

    Please don''t get me wrong, I swear in another situation, I might (kiss him?) maybe! I was gay. I AM gay. Triple gay, at that. SO TRIPLE GAY, IN FACT, SO TRIPLE GAY THAT I FREAKING SHOOT RAINBOW LASERS OUT OF MY HANDS WHEN I WAVE TO SECURITY GUARDS AT SHOPPING MALLS (if and when they stare at me for way too long, only). So, maybe I would freaking kiss the guy, somehow, in an alternate set of circumstances. Anything is possible, right? OH WHAT IS MY POINT?! I''m just trying to be nice and trying not to be mean. He was probably a great guy (???), maybe. I didn''t know.

    And I wouldn''t have known.

    Because I didn''t know him.

    --ovw--

    "AT THE END OF THE DAY ONE OF US WILL BE DEAD," I said, interrupting, "AND I DON''T CARE IF IT''S ME." And then, there, in front of all my friends and my worst, absolute worst enemy- I began to cry. "I don''t care if it''s me. I just want to be in a world that does not have you in it."

    And, apparently, those were the words that destroyed him.

    Flash of blinding, white light, an enormous, astronomic tremor that shook probably not only my bones but likely also the lining of my intestines and possibly my brain- a spark and then an outward resonance that blasted everybody but Abomination Tobler off their feet and into the walls or a counter or a mantle or a sofa- Elyza was the lucky one. Whereas, Connor fell unconscious immediately and Ember was blown back into... I didn''t know what it was. A... an antler? A sharp decoration of some kind. Kaylee and I ran immediately toward him when a very strong arm grabbed me by the waist, from behind, and kept me in place- Abomination Tobler''s arm.

    OKAY OKAY WHY ON EARTH IS IT THAT GENETICS DICTATED THAT I **HAVE** TO BE LIKE HALF THE SIZE OF EVERYBODY AND EVERYBODY IS TALLER THAN ME AND I AM A SKINNY PENCIL THAT ANYBODY CAN LIFT

    JUST

    WHY

    W H Y ????!?!? !?!?!?? !????

    I resisted the urge to drive my heel straight up into his balls with ignite and then spin off-

    Wait. Actually, he might have liked that...

    UGH.

    W H Y ????!?!? !?!?!?? !????

    "Let the boy, go, Jeffery," James growled, so unlike the warm tone I was accustomed to. So unlike his usual; his baseline. "His friend needs him."

    I stared at Ember, his hooves on the ground facing us and his... I wasn''t sure; his side or his leg or something in his horse-human-horse-like body had been gutted- the artifact mounted on the wall so gloriously, and so perfectly, was in fact some kind of dead animal''s sharp, tenacious antlers. I assumed they were possibly those of the mutated sabretooth-deer hybrid, also seen usually around V8. Seen usually around V8 or that''s what I was told. What did any of us know, now, after the encounter with the Talon? But it could have been any animal''s. I wouldn''t really have known.

    "HERE''S what''s going to happen-" Abomination started. "You simply let me keep the boy, and nobody gets hurt. You let me take him, off to some kind of an island somewhere, and I have him, where he belongs... and we all carry on with our lives." He smiled, the same smile he put on when he would lure me in with food or a treat or warmth and then then physically damage me in some way immediately after- "I''m sure none of you would like to anger me. How''s that?"

    Well. It was... my choice, was I to let him keep me and do whatever he wanted forever, or potentially sacrifice my friends?

    Was this an actual debate?

    "Let me go help Ember," I choked, squealing like a pinched hamster, "and you can have whatever you want- leave them all alone."

    "That''s ridiculous!" snarled Sam.

    "Sssshhhh," I hissed at her. "This is someone that''s capable of all, and I mean all of the damage in the world and more."

    "He''s right!" Abomination Jeff Tobler beamed, he practically sang the words in the perfect acoustics of the grand, amazing, astronomically expensive place.

    James stared at me.

    "Can I..." I hesitated, choking, still crying somewhat but focused on Myelantic, "Can I just stay here again? I can have visits from my friends, can''t I?"

    From the back, just barely in the periphery of my field of vision- I saw Liquid Nitrogen. She nodded at me, as she proceeded to slowly walk toward the very same screen that I had already unlocked earlier.

    "No visits," he replied. "And we don''t want to stay here. You never wanted to stay here, anyway, right?"

    Well... he had a point.

    "Chris, just let me talk to him," said James.

    "We''re all getting exactly what we all want- I''m perfectly satisfied!" beamed Tobler. He really was practically singing now. It was insane because I''d heard it before- and half the time he wasn''t actually even bad at it. It only scared me further. "And if you want the ring that''s responsible for the fourteen-year-old girl, you already have Peters. She has your answers."

    It wasn''t a bad deal. My friends live, walk away unharmed, never see me or this man again.

    Never see me, or this man again.

    I... I remember thinking I could live with it.

    I could live with it...

    He had the perfect plan. Murder, chase, lure me back. I suppose he''d tried this on many occasions before and simply failed; in the last two years alone I''ve ignored so many attempts to get my attention- because 9 out of 10 times, it''s obvious. You''re born in the Lowdown and you have the minimum necessary intelligence = you don''t fall for things. But many of those people don''t have the minimum necessary intelligence.

    My dream to help and to shut down other trafficker rings or the lords of mass abuse- shut them down one way or the other way- had come to life for a year; maybe two. The rewards were more than worth it, because I didn''t need a reward.

    A male voice spoke loudly in my head: "WE ARE NOT LETTING HIM TAKE YOU, MIDNIGHT."

    I wasn''t sure who it was.

    I locked eyes with Sam, who zoomed her way straight back to us and was standing only ten yards away. I saw the bandages on her shoulder again; the injury inflicted by Klein.

    I am not letting her get hurt again.

    Not her, not ANY of these people who have nothing but good to me... perhaps, with the exception of James. To even think his name was painful.

    "Chris." James''s voice.

    Our eyes still locked, Sam positioned one of her feet slightly behind the other, one hand a fist and one hand in the process of becoming one.

    NO.

    "He can kill all of you," I said out loud. "He''s asking for one thing." I choked on blood. "And KILLING all of you is not the worst thing this man can do. He''s only asking for one thing."

    He asks for one thing. And you all get to live.

    I''ve been lured into so many things, most of which were obvious. When you''ve spent sixteen or so years surrounded by the most deceitful, most repulsive of liars, you can see through bullshit and you don''t buy it. And I shut them down.

    I haven''t gotten all of them- I was still working on that. But I shut some of them down.

    Permanently.

    Maybe, that was enough.

    People certainly had attempted to kidnap me before; it was the same for people I worked with closely- Kaylee, Connor. I supposed there were others, who may have been viewed as close to me and possibly would be targets for that reason. I tried to limit my connections to those that were strong; capable in a fight even against the odds.

    People had been obsessed over me before. I supposed this was really no different. Just... the price to pay; the cost. It was a very high cost if I didn''t comply. It really wasn''t new. It was just like my life back at the Lowdown, all over again.

    He buried his face in my filthy, blood-coated hair.

    "Go help your friend," he whispered.

    "NOW!" Kaylee yelled at Liquid Nitrogen, who tapped the final command to lift the capsules- the SAME capsules that spit black smoke and poison fumes that turned SKIN into POISON.

    Only- one of them didn''t lift. Caleb''s was stuck to the ground or ceiling, two walls and two, just like Nightingale. Through a command on a device, Jeff activated that one still-buried in the ground capsule and that horrible, cruel, dreadful black smoke.

    Immediately, his skin turned dark blue and dark purple and the same red holes, small red holes that oozed blood and pus and whatever else- and those awful tiny little tentacles.

    I wanted to puke, but I was not going to.

    Kaylee, and James, and Elyza- they had all made their choice. They knew, and they knew how dangerous this man was.

    I yelled, my voice carrying like a honey-coated cotton ball trying to make a sound in a concert mosh pit- and yet, still audible- "If you value your life, LEAVE! I am killing this man and I''ll take care of it from here. Or he can kill us bo-"

    Jeff jabbed me hard in the throat as two blinding, absolutely blinding- beyond shining and beyond bright, giant white orbs of detonation deafened, disoriented most of us. I bit into his hand, biting until I tasted his flesh and his blood ran down my imperfect teeth- as I saw Emberion Myelantic slowly try, try to get up.

    It was as if it was slow motion:

    As the mansion or underground torture house or WHATEVER it was shook and rumbled, as the mine above us possibly was going to crush us all to our deaths, a glass shard, as large as my body- still glimmering in its gold and black tint- fell from five-and-a-half stories above, and Sam, who was still covering her ears, still blinking, orienting herself to perhaps throw her fists at this man that hurt me beyond any kind of repair- just like she threw her fists at anyone that ever tried to hurt me- unknowingly stood in its way before it hit the floor.

    Note from the author:

    Does It Fix You is on Nonfiction II: The Album (by realnotperfect).

    It''s an independent album from a nontalented person (me). Show love.

    --ovw--LXVII--ovw--

    When it''s all just gone into the end

    I don''t feel it, feel it anymore

    Catch me in the dead of night

    Catch me in the dead of night

    Because I''ll put your crimes into the light

    - from Sounds Around Me

    MONDAY

    11:14 AM

    Jeff Tobler''s hideout

    Status: Available

    Slow motion. That''s how it happened. To this day, I''ll miss her. To this day, I still cry, because I know that I will always miss her and I know that I will never, ever, forget her kindness.

    Slow motion.

    I can stop this from happening

    I can save her

    Slow motion.

    I can stop this I can stop this I can stop this I can stop this

    I can save her

    I remember spitting Jeffery Philip Christian Tobler''s blood out of my mouth with a piece of his skin stuck in my imperfect teeth, and then having to spit that out, too, and then trying to zoom and twist and spin and break my way to her-

    But, he was too heavy for me.

    But, his arm wrapped around my neck from behind me, and he held me in place.

    But, I only had half of a second, and my hands were still too far from Jeff''s face.

    The giant shard of glass came into contact with the worst place imaginable- right where her heart was...

    I remember it. Between her shoulder and her sternum. Just slightly to the left of the center of her chest.

    That was where it landed.

    I still remember tasting bile in the back of my throat. I remember choking on the disgust of having to be so near this awful, absolutely vile monster. When what I wanted was to be beside my friend.

    It pinned her to the ground, where the shard broke in two and shards showered her face, splintering her green-and-turquoise eyes that always reminded me of the Overwoods snow, that we would collect into cups, sweep off of window panes together, press into each other''s faces after tough days and tough SRAs, laughing about who should''ve won and which place Connor probably stole his motorbike from.

    She is- as she always has been- the stronger part of me.

    She always will be.

    On the hard days, I remember her, and sometimes she makes me feel like the tears can make me become stronger, instead of the mess that often takes over most of us.

    While the stranger Caleb Samuel writhed in the capsule and Kaylee ran toward him- I ignited Jeff''s face, causing it to go completely on fire both inside and out, breaking two of the fingers in my right hand in the process and spun, still in what to me felt like the slowest of all slow motions, in the air to land beside her. I took her hand in mine as I stared at the small glass shards that had peppered her eyes, causing them to bleed.

    "I''ll..." she muttered, somehow just barely audible to me, in all this chaos. "I''ll murder that hoe."

    My tears and water and mucus from my runny nose fell down onto her shirt and her face; neither of us cared.

    "Which one?" I said. "The man here, or Belinda?"

    She made this horrible... this... horrendous, ghastly, absolutely horrid croaking noise- I still hear it in my nightmares, at times, but at least I get to see her- I felt like I was the one that was dying; I wanted it to be me.

    "Both of them," she barely groaned; agonized. Her blood covered her light yellow shirt and covered all of her bracelets; all of the little cute trinkets that she wore. The rainbow flag. The little fox, the one with the white mane. The cat, the white one, with the yellow nose and the pink ribbon on its left ear. "Kill them both, Danny, Danny- promise me."

    "I promise," I whispered back at her. I didn''t know if it was a lie. But my next words, I meant, I meant more than any other words I had ever spoken. "I love you, Sam."

    "Kill them," she said. "I love you, too, Danny Christopher Sunlight. Midnight." She made this awful, croaking, gurgling, dying sound again- as she inadvertently sprayed both her saliva-digestive-enzyme-spit and blood, with the FUCKING DAMNED bits of glass at me. "You''re the kindest friend that I ever had, in the Lowdown and V4 and anywhere outside a'' thyeah. Give Chaquille all my dope. Thank you. Thank you so much, for everything. You really... you really are my morphine."

    And that was that. She died. Blinded by blood, glass, and my tears- the skin on my face white streaked with black from stealing all of her pain in the last minute I had together with her- I walked toward Jeff, who was writhing, madly causing ruptures, destruction, death, explosions- not unlike how he was back in Nightingale; not unlike how he was in the bedroom, Nightingale, or Lowdown.

    With nothing left except the awareness that I had lost more than anyone else- anyone else on earth- ever possibly could have, from all of the time and life and purity... and the innocence... and all of the inherent foundational human RIGHTS that were all taken from me, seemingly in one go- one knife buried itself into the hand that covered Jeff''s left eye; another knife buried itself through his neck- sideways; another into the same hand and eye and again and again and again and again into the heart as I started to dig all of my fingers into the hole in his chest; the pool of blood was nonexistent- it did not exist to me. What existed was Sam, the girl who bought me the cold strawberry pudding. The girl who defended me from everything that she could; the one that was going to help me find the murderer of this fourteen-year-old victim.

    But no.

    No, not anymore.

    --ovw--LXVIII--ovw--

    You wrote me a song I

    I''m never gonna believe

    So sit on the throne and I

    I''ll stay with the covers for you

    - from I''m Gonna Kill Me Before You Do

    MONDAY

    11:18 AM

    Jeff Tobler''s hideout

    Status: Available

    My fingers, broken and otherwise, buried inside the open flesh of Jeff Philip Christian Tobler''s chest- feeling, feeling desperately for his nonexistent heart; I began to wail, moaning, groaning and howling like a wounded deranged female tabby cat in heat, as the mine above us shook with the last few blinding, disorienting explosions and their remnants rattled the foundations of all of the things I''d ever known.

    Lyca tackled me hard, shoving me off of Jeff Tobler''s body as another large shard from the crystal-like barriers so high above us effectively severed his entire head off- or that might have actually been me and the glass shard just pushed it off further; I didn''t know- and then, Lyca pointed at Ember. He seemed unconscious, lying on the ground beneath a broken fireplace mantel.

    Do one thing right PLEASE

    PLEASE

    I cut through the air toward him with a superhuman, adrenaline-loaded speed and with almost perfect trajectory. The rumbling threw me off slightly.

    What mattered more, though, was that a circle of light spawned to my right and forced my body to do a triple forward rotation with 1 & 1/2 twist(s) which I did not intend to do.

    Orbiplosions.

    I landed on my head and watched the world turn purple, such an ugly shade of purple that I had never before seen, the blood from my eyes mixing with new blood from my nose and moisturizing my lips. And also my chin, which had glass in it. And also my left ear and also I think the eardrum. And my shoulder, too.

    And I TRIED to get up quickly.

    And I really, really tried...

    Wyatt is such an idiot

    I swear I HATE that guy

    Can we think of something else

    NO

    From the ground I saw Lyca pick up Jeff''s body- like it was a feather, which to her it probably really was- and snap it in half from the back. She slammed his body on the ground hard- so hard- but still not as hard as I wanted; not as hard as when he hit me when I was a child.

    And all I could do then was cry. I know I still do.

    And then I watched Lyca sprint toward the capsule Caleb Samuel Davenport was trapped in. I was more than willing to bet that the container was not only small to Lyca, but perhaps even fragile, like a snowflake.

    Snowflake...

    Sam.

    I can save her, screamed a hysterical voice in my head. The voice itself seemed to be exploding. To me, it was the only thing still exploding- even though the entire mine above us was still rumbling; even though smaller- but still sizeable- orbs of blinding white light were still everywhere. One staircase, where one of these circular explosions spawned, was no longer anything more than a pile of powder that reminded me of ash. But it didn''t smell like ash- it smelled like death; it smelled like evil; it smelled like Jeff Tobler.

    Orbiplosions.

    Blinding light in perfect circles.

    I could''ve sworn I''d seen them before somewhere...

    I can save her.

    My own voice was in every nearby telepath''s head- though I wasn''t trying to broadcast it. Even I couldn''t shut it up at that moment... though I doubt it was as much a nuisance as the remainder of the orbiplosions, and the falling death from above. It was a game of Get Rained On, You Die- Kaylee and I''s version of The Floor Is Lava that we would still play together even post-Nightingale.

    You know... because, of course, it made like absolutely tons of sense to play The Floor Is Lava with me.

    I can save her

    Miracle apples are in Vicinity Eight.

    Where was my mind? Where was anything?

    I can save her

    Sam is not gone, I can save her.

    I really love French toast.

    Shut the FUCK up! I screamed telepathically, at myself. Or was it at myself? Every telepath around heard it, too. No, no, I can save her. She is not gone.

    From where Kaylee stood she gave me... a look like she wanted to stab me with a fork. Or that''s what it looked like to me. I wanted to stab myself, too. Her tears were probably like mine- except mine had blood in them, and were turning black.

    Hers probably had tiny invisible sunflower seeds in them. I wouldn''t know.

    Can you do ONE THING RIGHT???

    I fumbled like a dying animal. I fumbled like an ant crushed by a boot. It felt like ten years, the time it took me to drag myself over to Skittles''s body.

    But Skittles is dead?

    SKITTLES WAS KILLED YOU IDIOT

    I felt for the smooth doggy coat- no, no, horse coat, right beneath the skin of my only-slightly-more-functional hand. Was it my left one or my right one? I didn''t even know left from right anymore. It''s strange how now, I look back and what I seem to remember more vividly than everything else was how hungry I was. I remember the colors and the blood, but my stomach still feels empty and stinging and just physically really absolutely horrible at the memory. Kaylee also says she feels that way...

    I wasn''t breathing when my hands turned Myelantic''s elegant white coat red.

    "Come on, Ember." The whisper was audible to myself only at first, and then, also audible to every telepath around. Come on, Ember.

    Come on, Ember.

    I coughed blood and spit it out to clear my throat a little bit.

    "Hey, man." My nose was a blood faucet and everything was dark purple and pure black. My eyes half-shut, I tried to search for any visible injuries; any open wounds; something; anything. "I owe you those apples, remember? From V8? Like I said I would?"

    LIKE I SAID I WOULD. The stupid, dumb promises that I made to the ones who DIED IN FRONT OF ME.

    But Ember isn''t dead yet

    I can still save her

    I can save them, I can

    I pinched my nose shut, and blood pooled in my mouth.

    I can do one thing right

    I can do SOMETHING right, I CAN

    Focus on Emberion.

    I''m really hungry...

    THERE IS NO MORE SAM GO SAVE EMBERION

    I barely registered that I was doing what I was doing- that I was even doing anything at all.

    It was muscle memory; though all of the nerves in my body were fried and my face and hands were chalk-white from stealing Sam''s pain.

    I waited for pain to transfer, from Emberion who gave me the only pain medicine I could afford when I was still young, when I had been beaten to a broken-nosed, bloody-mouthed child slave from the Lowdown, one reduced to a defective and fragmented pulp... by what Ember called a miserable child pimp.

    Ember couldn''t stand me in pain; he never let me go home with with a bloody nose; he''d wrap my arms and back in an actual bandage, and made sure I could actually walk before letting me out of his sight. I know this because that is how he treated me, and none of the many favors that I ever did for him were forced or sexual, because he knew how to be a friend to me.

    And that is more- much more- than what my "family" could say.

    HE FED ME MORE THAN MY FAMILY DID.

    Years ago, he''d call me the "little mouse that crawled out of the sewers." Except in a genuinely sweet, wholesome, horse-y way. When I began working investigation, he started to call me something else; he started to call me what Lyca called me; he called me what Sam called me in her final moments: Morphine.

    What she called me in her final moments-

    But for me, at twelve, morphine wasn''t me. It was him.

    And then suddenly I wasn''t done.

    I wanted Jeff alive, cut off limb by limb, tied to a stake; he deserved to be injected alive with bloodkill into every inch, every square centimeter of his distorted-corrupted-DEPRAVED-degraded BROKEN brain and nonexistent heart and body-

    No, no, it didn''t matter; God and karma and the universe could handle that. It then struck me that I was feeling no additional pain.

    I looked down, and blinked, and blinked, to triple-check that my hands were still on Myelantic''s white coat.

    No additional pain.

    For just a second I glanced once more at Sam''s body, then focused my attention back to Ember- but just like Skittles, and just like Crayon, it was all gone before I could take it from him.

    No pain. He was gone.

    He was gone and I COULDN''T EVEN STEAL THE PAIN OFF HIM BEFORE he was GONE.

    Fuck''s sake do ONE FUCKING THING right Midnight

    I can still save her

    The echoes in my head, the echoes in my head...

    Do you hear the sounds around me?

    Focus on Emberion.

    Save who? Focus where?

    There is NO EMBERION

    Another gigantic shard fell from the sky in front of us; I shielded my eyes from more flying confetti; from circular flashes of blinding white light; from more explosions.

    Do ONE THING right Midnight

    When did death and soullessness ever look so beautiful, like a rock concert from thousands of years ago shown on the school library television screen?

    DO ONE FUCKING THING RIGHT

    From an enormous shelf, a residual intermittent orbiplosion pushed the heavy glass aquarium of pseudosaltwater, glowing clownfish, shining pure-white angelfish, and Aequorea Forskalea down onto the marble tiles. I can still remember how the blood and the water mixed puddles on the floor.

    You can''t do anything right

    A flash of blue light, sparks, and glass- whatever illuminated the tank. Caleb Samuel was screaming.

    You can''t do ANYTHING right

    I thought I heard Tiana''s moans of pain.

    Good, I thought. Tiana Ambervi is alive.

    But she certainly wasn''t the one bringing this HAUS DOWN!!!

    Another explosion turned half the dark marble replica of Auschwitz II-Birkenau into rubble, ash, fire, and crushed powder.

    It also took three of Emberion Myelantic''s four horse legs with it, and I thought maybe, we might keep get to keep two, because one landed straight onto my face and into my arms. Did you know that Josef Rudolf Mengele''s birthday was not that different from Kaylee and I''s birthdays? Yup, same month, only four days apart. History lesson for you.

    I screamed a young boy''s scream (or a young girl''s scream, or whatever the spectrum is nowadays, it almost feels hard for me to keep up sometimes, or a young nonbinary person''s scream- you get the point, right? I apologize), impossibly high; I should have recorded it for a song for personal record purposes; giant shards still falling above us started to shatter only half of the way down.

    Well at least maybe that saved someone.

    I need to get the miracle apples I OWE him from Vicinity Eight

    But... how

    I heaved again.

    If there is NO EMBERION

    There is NO MORE EMBERION

    And that... was when I lost my mind.

    For the five hundredth time.

    I didn''t feel that the shaking had stopped- Kaylee was then tying my arms with stielvine, or she was trying to- because then I attempted my second suicide attempt of that day. I pushed Kaylee roughly away from me, grabbed the nearest sharp object- the one knife I had always, always saved for myself. With my right hand and using even the two broken, mis-angled and mis-aligned fingers on it, I gripped the knife hard, as hard as I clutched Sam Shilberg''s hand when she died- only this time the hand was not in her hand but on the left of my throat.

    The blade had just buried itself into my skin when the flashing, blazing fire of orange blinded me- making me step back a moment, making me drop my knife.

    "No," I whispered.

    My knife. My knife, please.

    I found it in the blood and glass, picked it up, and then a whipping long dark green vine of Kaylee Davenport''s whipped it off of my hand again.

    "No," I said again. "No," I said, again... and again. "My knife," I whispered to no one, "Please."

    I picked it up a third time when Lyca punched it straight out of my hand- effectively breaking two more of the fingers on it- and she caught it in midair, and then snapped it in two.

    I had nothing left in me; I couldn''t scream.

    So instead I just sat on the floor and sobbed.

    Anthony David put his warm red mantle to me. It was so funny; it was almost familiar- it had felt almost like he had wrapped it around me a hundred times before. It was like I knew how it felt already and I really liked it- as Elyza Cobb froze the dangling broken fingers, perhaps, to save them from coming off entirely. Lyca returned to work, smashing and breaking down the rest of the capsule- steering clear of the toxic, ugly, poison smoke, but failing anyway as a mere wisp of the smoke-like poison landed onto her arm and her skin immediately turned blue and purple; the holes and the ooze and the tentacles.

    After Liquid Nitrogen froze up my broken fingers, she waited graciously for Lyca to come hold me in place, for Kaylee to wrap all of us in healervine while she gave everyone a completely tasteless avocado. Caleb Samuel was probably dying- but I felt like there was nothing in me that cared. He sounded to me like a psychopath, anyway. Imagine being so big and strong and powerful and using all of it only to hurt other people. I''m not saying that was what he was. He just gave me that vibe, a little.

    James stood alone across from us as Kaylee and Elyza tried to nurse the awful, overly disgusting wounds caused by the smoke- those inflicted heavily on Caleb. James stood in front of his older brother''s snapped, stabbed, decapitated body.

    Decapitated.

    Just like that fourteen-year-old girl.

    I wondered if Belinda had answers. Maybe. Because this time, it was different.

    Because although I was a marshmallow, she was now going to be talking to a killer.

    --ovw--