April Writing Challenge: Apocolypse Now

[Yulia Sokolov]

This isn't home (pt. 2)

“She’s a burden to you Mama.” Yulia could hear her sister’s voice from the kitchen. It was Irina, of course. Elena was far too nervous a creature to ever speak out like that. Still in that sense it was both of them, as Irina tended to speak for both. Barely even glanced up from the form she was working on.

“No Irina, now that isn’t true. Your sister has a job.” Irina scoffed in the kitchen.

“She has a job, yes, but where has she been for the past thirteen years?”

“You know where she has been Irina, she was in the military and then in America.”

“I bet she’s all tied into the mess over there,” Irina said bitterly. America’s troubles with the now reorganized and stranger MSAD had been in the papers and on the news. That made Yulia glance up, tempted to go out there and scold Irina. She didn’t though, she had work to do and she didn’t want to stress her mother out any more. However, Christina spoke up for her.

“Irina! What kind of thing is that to say about your sister! She could not possibly, she has been here.”

“She wants to go back though.” That was true, in fact Yulia was working on her immigrant Visa now. In the meantime she had been trying her best to contact her friends. She hadn’t heard from any of them, but assumed that they had fled Pilot Ridge after MSAD resurfaced once the military had withdrawn. At least that was what she hoped had happened, because the alternative was just too awful to think about.

“She has friends there, she has a life there.”

“What about here? She should stay here and help us to take care of you when you get old Mama.”

“I am getting old now and I can take care of myself. Your father and I will be fine.” Yulia had enough. She put down her form and stepped out of her room, going to the kitchen where her mother and sisters were. Immediately all were silent. Her mother absentmindedly stirred her tea. Irina glared at her younger sister, the look sizzling with anger. Then there was Elena, who just sat there, thin, cold, and as sharp as an icicle. Yulia got herself a glass of water, simply enjoying their forced silence. She took her time, and soon enough Irina was forced to start in on another subject.

“Peter keeps letting the children get away with everything. They won’t even listen to me anymore.”

Yulia went back to her room.

~

“You’re fired.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” Yulia said in alarm.

“You are Meta, it says so in your new papers, so you are fired. We cannot have you in this mine.” Yulia looked down, if she got fired from the mine then where could she get a job? If this was on her papers then her prospects were grim.

Things were hard enough already. Yesterday she had gotten word that her immigration visa had been denied, and she still hadn’t gotten any letters yet. She was worried already, and now she felt sick to her stomach. Yulia handed over her helmet and walked out of the office. She had no idea what she was going to do. Was it possible for her to get fake papers? She had perfect control over her ability, no one was in danger.

Yulia left the premises and walked home. It was better just to go than to stay and fight it out with her boss and security. Now Irina would be right, she was about to become a burden. Still, during the long walk home she did come up with a plus. If this continued she could apply for Humanitarian parole. Naturally she didn’t want it to, but there was some advantage.

Clearly the same reason that she had been denied her immigration Visa had also cost her job. She was a security risk, or rather was unjustly considered one. She could find some way of it working in her benefit. Well, it looked like she had plenty of time to brainstorm now.

~

Yulia sat at the kitchen table, looking down at the new paperwork. She had no job now, no one would hire her. At least they weren’t chasing her out, her military time earned her some respect. Her parents had been quite, tense. She knew that they were worried about money, she knew that they could only support her for so long. She was using what she had saved to support herself, but her funds were drying up.

The situation in America was getting worse from what she could tell. Other countries were now facing such challenges. China was right bellow them, and the Metas there had risen up as well. Yulia hated MSAD more than ever. They had caused a lockdown on anyone who was a meta. Russia was really cracking down. She had been informed of her curfew, and other check in times. Luckily she had always been one to play by the rules.

Yulia signed her forms in a few last places. She stacked them and put them into the manila envelope that was already stamped and addressed. Tomorrow her father said he could drop off the petition for humanitarian parole to be mailed. Yulia stood, but then there was a sudden knock on the door. Nickolai wasn’t home yet, but Christina stepped out of her bedroom. Yulia answered the door.

“Yulia Sokolov?”

“Yes.” She didn’t have time to say anything more. The man tazed her and she blacked out.

~

“Yulia?” Yulia blinked a few times, her body aching. She looked at the man across the table from her. She wasn’t sure where was was, but she knew what this was. It was clearly an interrogation, but for what? She hadn’t done anything, but then again she had gotten a lot of crap for not doing anything over the past couple months.

“Yes,” She replied. Her wrists were tied behind her to the chair she was sitting on, and the room was wickedly cold. She started to shiver.

“Yulia Sokolov, twenty five, born in Norilsk, attended Odarennyi and then you were in the Military for seven years?”

“Yes, but what is this about?”

“I will ask the questions Ms. Sokolov,” said that man as he grimly sorted through his papers.

“You are a meta human? With Psionic Blast?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You lost your partner during a mission?” Yulia was silent, she didn’t want to talk about Evgeny. The man took note of this. “I see that this is a sore spot for you. Do you blame the military or Russia for this?” That earned him a suspicious look from Yulia.

“We could have had better intelligence on the cell that we were invading.”

“Hmm, I see,” he said as he marked something down. “And so you left the military for Vermont?”

“I was discharged, I was badly injured and I took a job elsewhere.”

“Hammel.”

“Yes.”

“Hammel has been on the news a lot recently. It has raised some concerns for us. It seems as if MSAD is spreading from that very town.” Now she understood.

“I fought against MSAD in Pilot Ridge,” she declared determinedly.

“What proof do you have of that?” Yulia stared at him blankly for a moment.

“None,” she said slowly. “The people I know, they’re either dead of fleeing.”

“So there is no proof that you weren’t a MSAD agent? None at all?”

“My word isn’t good enough? I served in the Military for seven years.” The man slammed his hand down on the table.

“Where your partner died in a mysterious incident, after which you ran off to Vermont.”

“It wasn’t mysterious, it was an explosion! An explosion that the military sent him into!” The man sat down with a satisfied smirk and Yulia knew that she had misspoken. She bit her lip.

“So you do blame the Military for the death of Mr. Yegor?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You might as well have.” This wasn’t fair, but that seemed to be a theme or late.

“That isn’t true, people I cared about, my co-workers, died.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No!”

“Did you help someone else kill them?”

“No I did not.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Do you think we are all just malicious killers? All Metas?” The man gave a half smirk and half snarl, paired with a cold laugh.

“It looks like it from what we have seen on the news and from what we have gathered at our own institute.”

“You expect children forced into military school to be happy?”

“They’re lucky they aren’t in the outside world like you and the other graduates.”

“What is this all about?”

“Russia sees metas as a threat to national security. Given your military training and knowledge, let alone your questionable loyalties, we will have to place you in a facility. We are doing the same with all of our Metas, in unit or discharged.”

“They haven’t even done anything, have they?”

“We can’t take the risk.” Yulia pulled at her restraints, trying to break them now.

“You cannot do this to a group of innocent people!”

“We will do what is needed to keep the Public safe.”

“What happens to all of us?”

“You will all be dealt with according to your power set. Given your power and your history I can guarantee you of what you will get Ms. Sokolov.”

“And what is that?”

“An execution date.”

~

Yulia’s eyes were closed, and she leaned against the wall. The painted cinderblock was cold against her back and shoulders. She had been here for a few months, locked away like a criminal with a bunch of other metas. Then again, in the eyes of the government they were criminals. She had watched mainly, some were old men and women and some were younger than her. She had been interrogated since, mostly about MSAD. Naturally she didn’t know much, and they thought she was simply resisting. She continued to proclaim her innocence. It did her no good.

A few weeks after she arrived here she had seen the first one. They had taken a man out, a man around the age of forty she would say. They had all watched as he had been led past the cells to the doors. At first Yulia thought they were letting him out, she had been wrong. Her cell window faced the field behind the prison not the road in front. They brought the man out to that field, and Yulia watched through her window as they shot him in the head and buried him in that field. Over the past few months she had watched as that field became a cemetery.

The man had been right, they had given her an execution date as well, but that was for two months ago. However she was still alive because of one thing, her application for humanitarian parole. She had the chance to escape all of this, given that the United States granted that parole. It was a long shot but it was her only chance. The downside came with the sickening knowledge that any day could be her last, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was at the mercy of a government already plagued by meta problems.

Clicking footsteps that signaled the approach of guards. There was a general rustle of movement from the cells as everyone looked to see where they were going. It was like a sick game show, who would die today? Yulia watched and waited, but then they stopped at her cell. One unlocked the door and stepped in. Yulia sat calmly, which took nearly all of her self control at this point. The guard said nothing to her, just reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter, holding it out to Yulia. She looked at it for a moment and then took her, her hand shaking a little. She looked down at the address, it was from the U.S. Citizen and Immigration services. So this was it, this was the letter she had been waiting for.

“Open it,” the guard told her.

Yulia tore open the envelope and took out the letter…

[Jonah King]

A Conversation.

‘This is the recuperation room. The people here need a lot of bed rest before we can even think about discharging them.’

‘Were they wounded in the school?’

‘Most of them were taken from the scene, yes.’

‘I guess we’ll have to come up with a name for that fight. The Battle of the School? The End Of The War? The Final Battle? How about The Last Stand?’

‘Does Mr Weaver know you’re this flippant?’

‘He encourages it.’

Pause.

‘Maybe you can help me out with something. That girl – third bed from the back, she’s sitting next to it – she hasn’t moved for three days.’

‘Who, Mia?’

‘Is that her name?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘Didn’t say a word. She just sits there, next to the young man.’

‘Jonah King.’

‘She just sits and watches him. It’s like she’s scared that if she turns her back on him, he’ll disappear.’

‘She saw some pretty bad stuff happen to him.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Both arms, all the fingers, three ribs, one leg – all broken. And the cuts…’

‘Welcome to the MSAD.’

‘She kept talking to me, when they brought him in. She kept saying “He didn’t scream.”’

‘They were hurting him to get to her.’

‘What for?’

‘She’s a technopath. She wouldn’t do anything for them, no matter what they did to her. They knew that, so they hurt Jonah instead.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yep.’

Pause.

‘She not ‘all there’, is she?’

‘She got beat up pretty bad, early on. They tried to smash her head in. He stopped them – but they did a lot of damage. I think she has trouble thinking about the future.’

‘That would happen, with a frontal head injury. The brain damage can alter how far ahead you can perceive.’

Pause.

‘Is he going to be OK?’

‘He’ll be fine when he wakes up. We’re just keeping him sedated so that he doesn’t do any damage to himself.’

‘Can you take a look at Mia?’

‘If she’ll let me. She doesn’t like to be touched. And she’ll never leave him – she wouldn’t even eat if we didn’t give her the food.’

‘I’ll talk her into it.’

Pause.

‘Has anyone had a look at you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘It’s been three days. I’d have noticed any ill effects by now.’

‘I’ll check you over this afternoon.’

‘You care a lot for a non-meta.’

‘I thought it was the MSAD who made that distinction?’

‘Sorry.’

Pause.

‘I care a lot. Ben Rhodes saved my life.’

‘He was a good man.’

‘I – I heard about what happened to him.’

‘Believe it or not, that was a turning point. The beginning of the end. Cobalt - well. You've seen him.’

Pause.

‘My name’s Sharon, by the way. I guess I’m the senior nurse.’

Pause.

‘Robbie. Robbie Wilkes.’

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Old Friends

Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy.
Old friends
Memory brushes the same years.
Silently sharing the safe fears.

“We’ve been over this, and you don’t know how sorry I am. But it just isn’t possi-hold on a second.” He covered the receiver and said, “No, the white one first.” Back to the telephone. “It isn’t possible. Things have gotten worse and-I know they’ve gotten worse everywhere, but it’s different. We’re old men; we’re of no use to anyone.

“Hmm? Look, I’m very sorry, but we can’t. Just-“

“I can’t do it!” Frustration from his companion.

“Just hold on.” He didn’t cover the receiver this time; instead he simply lowered it and spoke more firmly. “I’ll help you in a second. Be patient.”

“Okay.” Meekness now.

He sighed and lifted the receiver again. “We can’t do it. And I need you to stop asking because it makes everything harder afterward. How? Because then I have to answer questions. Now, I have to go, but if you need money or a place to stay, you know you can stop by. All right. Be safe.” He hung up.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. Then he turned to his companion and plastered a smile on his lips. It was fake but the other man wouldn’t notice. He never noticed.

Then he went to work on the task that had given the other man such trouble: buttoning his shirt.

On the third button, it occurred to the other man to ask, “Who called?”

“Clarisse.”

The recognition was delayed, but it came. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Lying was so easy now. He never used to get away with it, and now...now he could lie with impunity. He barely gave it conscious consideration.

“Good.” The single word was accompanied by a genuine smile.

He finished with the buttons and then handed the other man his jacket. “Come on. We have to go.”

**********************************

Hiding in plain sight wasn’t as easy as it used to be, but they made do; he’d become a master of the art over the past few years. The early graying was the best thing to happen to them because it went a long way in helping them blend. Who cared about two old men on the street? Or in a café? Or on the bus?

It gave them safe passage which was more than their former comrades had.

His companion was particularly withdrawn lately. He still brooded sometimes, even though the weight of the world was no longer on his shoulders. It made the trips at once both bearable and more frustrating. Bearable because there were no temper tantrums, no inane chatter. Frustrating because he felt all the more alone.

During those times, he let him stew until the black mood passed; they always did. It left him alone with his thoughts. He’d had too much time alone with his thoughts recently.

His companion hadn’t said anything to him in over an hour. Time moved too slowly on the bus, which was the problem with frequent mandatory checkpoints. Thankfully their identification papers were in order; perfect forgeries, those. Even if they had to use fake names, those had been easy enough to remember; former aliases were useful that way. With nothing else to do, he fished out his ear buds and plugged into the news broadcast.

...massive forest fires on the West Coast. Firefighters are doing what they can to contain, but the blazes are intense. The National Guard is unable to spare anyone to assist, due to the war zones in the South and in the Heartland. In international news, the European Union’s vote to disband is scheduled for the end of the month...

He pulled the ear buds out; that was more than enough news for today.

************************************

He thought he’d heard the phone ring. He slept lightly now, out of necessity, and he thought he’d heard the phone ring. But lying in the darkness, he couldn’t hear it. His paranoia was getting worse, which was just fantastic when he had no access to mental health care.

Then he heard it. Voice. A voice. But he couldn’t make out the words.

It hadn’t been his imagination. As quickly as he could – which was slower than once upon a time - he rolled onto his side, reached for his glasses and got out of bed.

“...why aren’t you at the school?”

Although he didn’t hear the response, he knew what it was; and then he hard his companion begin to sob. “I should have been there; I should have helped. I’m so sorry...”

“Give me the phone.” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice steady. The other man looked at him, eyes puffy and red, but he complied. He always complied now. He didn’t even ask questions.

As soon as he had it, he all but hissed, “Part of the deal was that you only talk to me. Now look what happened.” He gritted his teeth as he listened to the explanation, and he felt a headache brewing; it was too early for this. “And just what do you want us to do? I’m half blind and he...well, you heard him. We’re not in any condition to do that. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. I’ll wire you some more money in the morning.”

When he hung up, he was still seething, and his companion was pacing the room, picking ineffectually at the skin of his thumbs with his forefingers. The nail biting was apparently a throwback to childhood, before they’d met, but it was the least of his problems and so he never did anything to stop him aside from simple admonishment which did nothing. At least he wasn’t able to hurt himself now. He was muttering under his breath, too low to make out, although he didn’t even think they were real words. That was a problem for later, if it persisted.

“Hey.” He put his hand on the older man’s shoulder, stilling him. “Everything will be fine.”

The other man shook his head, eyes still red. “The school. She said-”

“I know, but everything will be fine,” he repeated, a little firmer. Then he took a deep breath and admonished, “Do you remember what I said about the phone?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“That’s right. But I meant it; you can’t touch it at all. Even when it’s ringing; even if it’s going to wake me up. Okay?”

“Okay.” His companion stared at him, scrutinizing him, and then said, “I’m sorry your head hurts.”

He forced a smile. “It’s not that bad. Now, let’s go back to bed. The sun isn’t even up yet.”

************************************

Even though he hadn’t worked for pay in years, he had a hundred job titles. Travel agent, banker, librarian, chef (although he was terrible at that one), EMT, salesman, mechanic...

Today he was a barber.

He brought the scissors across the other man’s beard. It had been easier to let him grow out the beard and to deal with trims than it was to shave every couple of days. His companion’s hands weren’t steady enough to hold a cup of hot coffee, let alone a razor. And for his own part, he didn’t have the time or the energy to shave him that often.

“Almost done,” he promised, as the other man fidgeted. “Then we’ll go get something to eat. Okay?”

“Okay.” There was a pause, before his companion asked the question he’d asked all too frequently. “Do we have a date tonight?”

He hated that question. There were too many that he hated having to answer, since the task of balancing the web of lies to keep up appearances with the truth necessary to keep them going. It was hard seeing the hurt in the other man’s eyes, as he explained. Every. Single. Time. It was harder listening to the crying and hearing the follow-up questions before the inevitable “what did I do?”

He didn’t have the strength for it today. So the scales tipped toward lies and he replied, “Yes. Yes, we are.”

The smile he earned from that was worth it. As was the lack of questions. Apparently his companion didn’t care where they went. That was one thing that had never changed.

***************************

...soldiers on the march on the outskirts of the city...

As the local news played in the background, he was throwing their remaining belongs into their suitcases. They had to leave now.

The other man was watching him with bemusement. As though he understood what they were doing but couldn’t fathom why. Like it was something silly that they did a lot and so he didn’t know better.

He rubbed his eyes and reached for their few books, shoving them into nooks and crannies in the suitcases. “Steve, I’m going to be done in about five minutes. Do you think you can see if there’s a taxi we can get?”

His companion was happy to help. He reached along the wall to help him get to the window and then stared out at the streets below. A couple of minutes passed, but then he smiled triumphantly. “There’s one across the street.” He slurred his S’s more frequently now, which meant that another speech decline was on the horizon.

He frowned, however, because there was no way they could get packed and out the door to catch a cab that quickly. “Are there any others?”

“There’s the one across the street.”

He sighed. Even simple tasks now...that really wasn’t fair; he couldn’t help it. He tried again, “Look for something else; that one won’t be there long enough.”

“It’ll be there as long as we need it.” Those S’s weren’t slurred. It was also a more confident statement than he could remember hearing in...well, in a long time. Far too confident given the power slips.

He didn’t have time to think about it; if the taxi was gone by the time they got outside, they’d just have to walk and find a new one. He focused on packing, then zipped up the suitcases and stacked them to make them easier to pull. “All right. Let’s just go.”

There was clarity in the other man’s eyes when he turned to face him. The affirmative nod and sure presence were both relieving and almost comical given his decline and the fact that he was still feeling against the wall for balance.

“Steve?”

“This is giving me a headache. Come on.” Still feeling along the wall for balance, his companion made his way to the door.

Not objecting to the reprieve from having to usher the other man out the door, he grabbed the suitcases and followed. He followed standard operating procedure and locked the door, even though they wouldn’t return; it would make for another barrier just in case someone paid a visit.

Across the street, they met the taxi; the driver sat there in a daze. He recognized that expression: the look of someone who had no memories beyond the need to perform a particular task. He’d missed that; it made life easier.

He shoved the suitcases in the trunk, helped the other man, and then all but dove into the cab. He gave the driver instructions and then they were off.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the other man. It was strange, but with only a five minute reprieve and he was ready to shed his burdens and resume old patterns. But his companion didn’t say anything.

Frowning, he looked into the other man’s eyes and saw that they had clouded over again. His companion smiled at him dimly and reached for his hand.

He remembered these lucid periods from his father; unfortunately they never lasted long.

Sighing, he took the other man’s hand and gazed out the window, at the city they were leaving behind.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Captive

"He's going to kill us."

Josh shifted slightly, tilting his head to look at the woman beside him. Blond hair framed a face gaunt from captivity and wide-eyed with suspended terror. "He won't. They'll find us first." He whispered, though he wasn't convinced himself. He hoped they would be found; he didn't want to die in captivity and Lucy had a young daughter at home. And a husband. A very distraught husband: Josh knew this, because James Campbell was one third of Bernstein, Campbell and Weaver Law. He'd seen James the night Lucy had gone missing, and the younger man had been, simply put, a mess.

"They won't." She shook her head, tears streaming down her face as she glanced across the room at the other captives. Several of them had been there longer: Red-haired Michael had been the first; Josh remembered hearing about his disappearance on the news over the winter. He and his partner had come down from Vermont for Christmas vacation and he'd disappeared. At the time there had been some speculation that homophobia was involved. He now knew that wasn't the case. Homophobia would have remained a decent explanation for his kidnapping or for Danny (poor Cobalt, he had to be sick with worry.) but it in no way explained Lucy or Terrence or the young goth woman. Their captor said her name was Rose, but she hadn't said a single word since joining their little group the evening before last.

There was one thing that tied them together.

You're not worthy.

He paused, trying to discern who had spoken. The only person in sight was the bedraggled panhandler leaning against the building, face covered by a wild beard. Amber-colored bottle necks peeked out from a brown paper bag at his feet.

I know who you are. The man's mouth hadn't moved; Josh glanced behind him. Nobody there. He kept walking, passing the panhandler.

"You shouldn't have done it." The whispered admonishment came from behind and then the world went black.


Danny nudged Lucy with his shoulder, the closest to a reassuring pat he could give with his hands tied behind his back. "Josh is right. They'll look for us. Cobalt and James won't stop until they find us."

"Leila will be looking, as well," Terrence added before lapsing back into silence. When he'd first come he'd insisted non-stop that Leila, his 'golden-maned goddess', would come to the rescue. That had been almost a week ago and she still hadn't shown up. Nobody had. They still wanted to believe they would be saved. Except Lucy; the blonde woman had slowly sunk into hysterics so that now every word she spoke only served to depress her fellow captives.

"We'll be dead by the time they find us!" Lucy's voice went up several octaves and the men cringed. Rose continued to stare blankly at the wall; her hands were unbound, but she hadn't made any move to escape. Frankly, Josh found her creepy and it wasn't because of her goth affectations. "Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead." Lucy was repeating her mantra, rocking back and forth. Both Josh and Danny edged away from her.

Michael glanced sideways at them, not bothering to turn his head. "She's right. He'll never let us go." He wasn't quite whispering, though his voice was low. He had less faith that his partner would come to the rescue; from the interviews on television Josh understood. Riley Adams seemed an unassuming man, the sort who would let the police search for his missing spouse instead of hunting on his own. "He won't let them find us."

That was the trouble: it wasn't that the police weren't looking for them. A rash of kidnappings was difficult to hide, particularly when several were related to the same law firm. The trouble was their captor was, in many ways, not normal. It wasn't just that he was wild-haired and eyed, but he knew things without ever being told, things that nobody else should have known. And whenever anyone came to close to their hideout, he made them leave. Josh wasn't sure how, but one minute the police would be knocking on the door and the next they would wander away looking dazed.

"He's not always here!" Josh objected, "Surely someone---"

The sound of someone shuffling at the door caught the attention of everyone in the room; a hush descended, broken only by Lucy's sniffling sobs.

The door creaked open, and suddenly the entire room was cloaked in darkness. "Danny?" A hoarse whisper accompanied the sudden darkness.

"Cobalt!"

"James is with me, he's waiting outside, bless his enhanced perception. He brought a friend, he's not from around here. South-western, by his accent. Some young girl is with them, I couldn't convince her to stay away." The voice huffed out a humorless laugh. "How many people are here?"

"Six," Terrence was quicker with numbers than the others and his answer was immediate. "Although I think one will need to be carried."

The rest of the group murmured ascent; Rose was in no shape to walk out of here by herself.

"Good. Danny, do you think you can carr-----aargh!"

The lights flared on, revealing their captor standing over the inert form of a short man with dark blond hair. The ropes used to bind Danny's wrists were coiled on the ground, but the bespectacled man was too busy staring at his feet in horror. "Cobalt." He whispered.

"Hey, you!" A young blonde woman scooted through the still open door, pointing a finger indignantly at their captor. Wind whipped around her, tossing her long blond locks. Behind her a dark-haired man with glasses and a Mickey Mouse tie and an athletic looking young man brushed finger tips.

"I think you'd better let them go," The athletic man stated calmly and the woman nodded once, decisively.

Their captor shook his head. "You deserve better than this. How could you help them? They're beneath you."

While he was distracted Danny quietly untied Lucy, then Michael. He was just making his way toward Terrence when their captor finally noticed. "Don't." He growled, and suddenly Danny's face went slack.

"Danny....!" The dark-haired man took a step forward while his athletic companion gained a look of intense concentration.

The captor furrowed his brow in response; beads of sweat began to form on both men's faces.

James glanced from his friend to his wife before hurrying to her side. "Come on, get out now while he's distracted," He whispered, shaking her shoulder. "Ginny needs you. I'll follow soon."

Lucy nodded once and scurried away, needing no further encouragement.

The blond girl joined James, untying her fiance. "Take her," She nodded toward Rose. "We'll hold him off as long as you need."

Terrence slung the black-haired young woman over his shoulder and hurried to the door, followed by Michael carrying Danny.

Before they'd passed the threshold the athlete was flung backward, hitting the wall and then sliding to the floor. Terrence paused, turning slightly, and Leila shrieked at him from across the room. "Go!" And he fled. Behind him Michael staggered, dropping his burden. His eyes had gone blank.

The wind picked up around the girl and debris swirled in the air, smacking into walls. She advanced upon their captor as James untied Josh, shoving him in the direction of the door. "I'm right behind you," He said grimly, making a detour for his unconscious friend.

Josh paused when he reached Danny, blank-faced as the Rose girl. Cobalt would never forgive him if he didn't rescue Danny, too. He leaned down, gingerly scooping the other man up the best he could; that task was more difficult than he'd realized. He staggered to his feet, making his way to the door when suddenly there was an explosion of memories, college and high school and visiting his parents and his bar mitzvah all fragmenting and dissolving and skittering away.

And then the world went black.

[Jethro Harker]

Peer Pressure

Jethro coughed to himself, almost scared of the sound he made. A part from the rain he was alone in this silence, any sound was startling. Sometimes, at night, his own breathing would wake him up. His arm hurt, it was making him sick, slowing him down. He tugged the bandages aside and looked at the twisted and burned limb. His stomach churned at the sight of it. It barely looked like a part of his body anymore, much less his right arm.

He could not even draw his own bow anymore. He had never wanted to be back in his own bed with his father and his stepmother in the other room and Boss at his feet. He was broken and alone. Alone save for those creatures.

Those things were waiting for him to risk it. He needed medicine for his arm, antibiotics, gauze, sterile tools. They knew he needed it and sat on everything they had taken from the town. They could afford to wait him out. They... They... They...

Jethro coughed, his fever was getting worse.

They were once his friends, classmates, comrades. Now they were they. It had started with the telepaths. It seemed that their gifts did not exactly sleep when they did. The unconscious minds of the telepathic students had been making contact with one another while the slept. Gradually, they began to think and act the same, until all of them gave themselves over to full and constant telepathic contact. Gestalt pairs were not uncommon amongst the metas but nothing of this magnitude.

Now here he was, holed up inside of a broken in store front, wounded, sick and alone. Outside, the rain fell heavily, pummeling cracked pavement and burned out cars.

“Jethro,” someone called out his name in a slow, sing-song voice. Jethro tensed up and gripped his bow tightly. It was the only weapon he had apart from the knife and he sure as hell did not want try and get close enough to use that. There was no way he should have heard it over the rain, yet he had, as clear as day.

He risked a peek out the smashed window. Out in the middle of the street stood a redhead, he tried to decide who they were tormenting him with today. Was it one of the Murphy twins? Or maybe Bell Rae? He did not know. They had begun altering themselves using the meta abilities they had accumulated. It could just be another shapeshifter for all he knew.

“Jethro,” the figure spoke again, softer this time, “We know you’re hurt. Why don’t you come in with us? We’ll give you your arm back. You’ll be able to draw your bow again. We all know how proud you were of that.”

It was a tempting offer, sorely tempting. His arm ached. How bad could it be to be with his friends again? He be part of something again, as opposed to dying cold and alone out in the street.

“No. No! Stay out of my damn head!” He bellowed at the figure in the street, the doubts receded but only part of the way.

“But Jethro, we can feel your pain, we want it to stop. Everyday you spend like this, starving, hurting, hating, we feel it as though it were part of ourselves. We feel everything about you and we know that this is for the best. You are one of us, part of us. We want you to come in with us, make us complete again, just like the old days.”

“If you feel everything then you know I will never join you,” he hissed. An arrow floated up from his quiver, carried by the steel washer he had bent around the shaft. It nocked itself. Jethro stood suddenly, drawing his bow with his mind. He lined up the shot and loosed the arrow. The figure did not move even as the arrow sunk into its chest.

“Oh Jethro,” the voice continued. He felt something moving behind him but even as he turned hands grasped his arms and forced his bow from his hands. The wood clattered to the ground as the darkness swallowed him up.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Jethro woke up back in the Hammel Institute. He was sitting inside the school’s auditorium, up on the stage. His hands were not bound, well his hand anyway. He laughed grimly at that thought. If you could not laugh at yourself... then... his laughter gave way to a coughing fit.

It looked like they had taken good care of the school, unlike the town. Their love for the old place continued into their current state. He supposed with the might of a god at their command, they could afford to keep it in perfect repair.

In front of the stage, they slumped. He had not seen them like this, unoccupied by their gestalt intelligence. They looked sunken, empty, like puppets without anyone pulling their strings. He could pick out faces from the rows of seats. Annabella Rae, Cole Kessler, Kou, Dr. Neville, everyone including a few choice faces from town.

They were waiting for something, it seemed and Jethro was not going to wait around for whatever it was. He started to stand up only to have a tremendous weight push down on him and force him back into the chair. As soon as he was seated again the last few puppets shuffled in and took their seats, this included the one he had put an arrow through. The shaft remained sticking out of it and it did not seem to mind.

Once they were all in place their eyes seemed to focus and they all simultaneously looked at Jethro. The one that had once been Dr. Neville stood up. Dr. Neville had not been one of the original members of the Gestalt consciousness but he had joined them willingly, hoping to temper their power with his compassion and experience. In the end, he had been overwhelmed and consumed. Seemingly out of difference to his earlier request, it spoke with its mouth as opposed to its mind.

“Well, here we are Mr. Harker,” it did not really sound like Dr. Neville. It approached the stage and climbed up the steps.

“Drop the act, you’ve got enough of my friends in there to call me Jethro,” he said with joviality he did not really feel.

“Alright then, Jethro, I’m sure you know why you’re here. We could help you.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“We could also remove you.” Some how he doubted there would be anything left after his ‘removal’.

“Charming options,” Jethro said, “But you know, my dad always said ‘When faced with two dead ends-’”

“‘-Tear down a wall and see where that gets you.’ Well, we all know how well that worked out for you,” the Neville-Puppet interrupted. Damn telepaths.

“I haven’t even begun tearing down walls,” Jethro said with melodramatic defiance in his voice. They smirked at him, all of them, at once. That was disturbing.

“We don’t begrudge you for being so limited in your view of the world,” the Neville-puppet said, “We can see many things you can’t. For instance, the infection in your poor arm is antibiotic resistant. Even if you flee, the infection will claim you before you can get medical attention. Your only chance of survival is to let us in, let us fix you, make you better.” Out in the audience, they began to stand up one by one, mixing their voices together.

The sound filled his head, trying to drown out any possibility of individual thought, trying to swallow him. Jethro suddenly felt so tired. He knew now just how alone he was here. He was sick, dying really. They had no reason to lie at this point.

He hung his head, the weariness pushing him into his seat more effectively than any power they could level on him. “Sorry, Doc,” Jethro said, his own voice sounding very small and weak to his own ears. They stopped immediately. “I’ve never been one to give in to peer pressure.”

“You won’t survive if you don’t give yourself over to us.”

“That ain’t a reason to live but it is an excellent reason to die,” Jethro said and focused on the Neville-puppet. Its eyes widened as red mist drifted out of its back, it shook and then collapsed to the stage. The red mist drifted over to Jethro and circled him slowly, forming a ring as he stood up. They were stunned, taken aback. Even with the changes they had performed on themselves, the sudden and complete cell death of their circulatory system and musculature and rendering the surrounding systems to swiss cheese seemed to put them down nicely.

It hurt though, the same process had begun in his own body. He coughed up some dead blood and grinned at them. “One way or the other, I die. The me, Jethro Harker, ceases to exist. I like the option were you lot go down with me better.” He could feel a pressure in the air as they tried to put a shield between him and them. He laughed, and pulled the Earth’s magnetic fields up around him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

People do not go to Pilot Ridge anymore, not after the month long period where no one could enter or leave. When it was finally over, the entire population was gone without a trace and it looked like someone had fought a war over the town. Pieces of metal drifted in mid air, compasses refused to point north and just spun about lazily, it any communications going into or out of the area were hopelessly garbled.

The national guard moved in, trying to find survivors and secure the Hammel Institute. When they got there, all they found was a lot of rubble and a slowly turning orb of metal scraps, several yards across. Efforts to dissect the orb have proven futile and have result in two injuries on site.

While the investigation is ongoing, records show that one Jethro Augustus Harker was enrolled at the school. His powers were believed to be based on manipulating magnetic fields. Current theories point to him being the most likely cause of the Pilot Ridge Incident.

[Lala & Reese Degreas]

Happy Ending

“Shit! GAMBIT!” Gabe shouted in horror as the enormous dog bounded off with a plate of steaks. The other dogs were upon him soon, sharing greedily in his spoils. Only Tango hung back, content to lay his head in Lala’s lap as Fifi braided the woman’s waist-length hair, grinning broadly.

“Woah-uh! oh~” Fifi sang as the lawn erupted into laughter, even Jesse cracking a bit of a smirk. Paulo shrugged next to the grill as Gabe made a remarkably grumpy face.

“That’s what you get for leaving it so close to the edge.” He pointed out quietly. Gabe’s only reply was a disgruntled “Tch.”

“Don’t worry.” Came Reese’s voice from the patio as she exited the house with a plate of hot dogs and polish sausages. Delilah wasn’t far after her, playfully pinching at her backside. Reese whipped around and growled at her new girlfriend, while Lala blushed heavily across the yard. Sticking her tongue between her teeth, Delilah chuckled. “Reese planned for inevitable dog failure.”

Jesse had already sidled up to the picnic table with the food laid out on it, Mirage’s wet nose poking up at the food from his hip. “None for dogs, girl.” Jesse chided, shooing the cunning pup on its way.

Fiona and Lala were soon by the table’s side, along with Gabriel and Paulo. Gabe looked smug again looking out at the food. “Undermining my authority, girls?” He teased as Lala rested her shoulder against Delilah. The long-haired twin smiled coyly.

“I thought you gave me authority in the kitchen.” She teased back. Her voice, as gentle as ever, did nothing to mask the sound of sirens fading into the far distance. Fiona was the only one who peeked to the fiery horizon, smoke pouring out into the clouds from the direction of where she used to go to school. Seeming unfazed, she snatched up a plate and hip-bumped Jesse into the direction of Gabriel, who caught the blonde under his arm with a chuckle.

“Tallest to shortest, Blondie.” She said with a grin. Jesse, fuming, reached out to pull her now long hair, but was stopped by a warning glare from Gabe. Grudgingly, he resorted to simply scowling at her. Later, he would spit in her lemonade.

Reese looked over her shoulder just as the dogs began to shuffle towards the head of the property. Lala soon after gave a small wave.

“Good to have you with us Doc.” Fiona said just before stuffing a pinch of potato chips into her mouth.

Max chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. “Wouldn’t miss it. Traffic is…” He looked to the direction of the sirens. “Interesting.”

Gabe shrugged and walked to the head of the table, looking over MSAD with the same look of pride he’d kept since Hammel had fallen.

“Doesn’t matter. The gang’s all here.”

An explosion boomed in the distance, rattling the ground under them. The only thing the
happy family could attribute it to was the thumping of dog tails in the grass.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Fakin’ It

Prior to this lifetime
I surely was a tailor, look at me...
I own the tailor's face and hands.
I am the tailor's face and hands.*

In college, he’d taken a philosophy class to satisfy a gen ed. requirement; over the course of the semester, they’d had to read all of the German philosophers from Schopenhauer to the present day. Three days of class discussion had been devoted to Frederic Nietzsche.

Nietzsche wrote extensively about how basic morality was a means of destroying the will, and that it was the Superman who was immune to such weaknesses as empathy, generosity and love. These men would rule the world; they would rise among their countrymen who were little better than serfs.

Nietzsche had similar opinions to Ayn Rand, another notable sociopath that he’d had to read in college; for his final paper, he compared their philosophies and then predicted that a world overrun by Supermen and John Galts was a world in which he’d rather commit suicide than inhabit.

He never thought he’d live long enough to have to admit that Nietzsche was right.

Love made him weak.

Love had caught him off guard. Love had made him trust.

Love had brought him here in the first place.

Here wasn’t quite a jail cell; it wasn’t quite a cage in a zoo. It was a 9X12 room with a cot, a window, and an electrified perimeter. He’d tested it the first day, and his heart rhythm still hadn’t returned to normal; he doubted that he could survive a second shock, which was why he stayed put. The window showed only a dark corridor, and so he spent most of his time on the cot.

Here was a place to keep him out of the way, to keep him from causing any trouble for his captor. To wear down his resistance until he became useful.

“Rise and shine.”

His captor was like a ghost, coming and going without warning. His voice made the telepath’s skin crawl; patronizing, cruel, and painfully familiar, albeit an octave deeper. As horrible as listening to him was, looking at him was worse. He could barely handle it, and so he didn’t look.

“What do you want?” It was a useless question, one he’d asked before. He knew what his captor wanted, and it would never come to pass. Both he and his captor knew it, and he was never given a proper response; every answer was different, but all were lies, little barbs intended solely to inflict as much pain in as few words as possible. It was a battle of wills; an essentially meaningless one since he was trapped in this room and his captor could come and go as he pleased.

“I thought you might be lonely. Do you want some company?”

The telepath frowned, but he still didn’t look up at his captor. “No. You’re not bringing anyone else here.”

He couldn’t stop him, of course, but he had to voice his indignation. He was in control of nothing but his opinions and emotions, and it had become all the more important to remember that, to keep that control. He was caged but he wasn’t broken. That was his mantra. So far it held true.

“Who said anything about bringing someone else?” A cackle before he felt a hand on his thigh. He shivered and bolted upright, dislodging it quickly.

“Don’t,” he warned, turning finally to glare.

“So ungrateful,” his captor said with a mocking grin. “And I took this form to please you.”

He looked into that well-loved face and saw nothing but malice; his blue eyes shone with sadistic glee that made him nearly unrecognizable. He knew that was a half-truth; his captor wasn’t interested in winning his favor. But he had made his choice purposefully, to get to him. The face his captor wore hadn’t stood a chance. The thought repulsed him, caused bile to rise in his throat which he quickly swallowed. “You disgust me,” he spat.

The punch was quick and painful; his captor was stronger than he’d ever been, even in the prime of his life. The telepath tasted blood twice: once from his burst lip and again from his tongue after biting down on it.

The hand came again, open now, and two fingers brushed his lips in a ghost of a caress. Blood smeared the tips, which his captor brought to his own mouth and sucked lasciviously. “Sweet,” his captor remarked with that same taunting grin. “All those cookies you eat take their toll. But we wouldn’t want you to burn through your natural reserves; so it’s for the best, now isn’t it?”

It could have been the implications of those words, it could have been the pain, it could have been the bile he’d held back since his captor had appeared, it could have been the whole damn situation, or it could have been the thought of his blood hitting both their stomachs at the same time. It didn’t matter because the result was the same; he turned his head and hacked up what he’d tried to keep down.

His captor grinned wider, delighting in the loss of composure. “Getting to you is it? Such a shame.”

The telepath wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to maintain his dignity; a difficult task considering he’d just vomited after taking a punch. “Get out.”

“Make me.” The same challenge he was always given.

The one he never attempted.

His mental shields were infallible; that had been Robert’s gift to him, and that was why his captor never launched a psychic attack, and instead relied on other means.

But there were limits to the telepath’s abilities. If he lashed out at his captor, he left behind the safety of his mental shields, and his mind went unguarded; he couldn't bolster his shields because his mind would be quite literally elsewhere. His captor could slip in through the cracks. Then all would be lost.

That was the goal, to take him just as he’d taken the face he wore now.

Even if he managed to keep himself safe during an attack, the attempt was a lost cause. Any damage he tried to inflict upon his captor would only hurt the face he wore; his captor would safely flee to another host – that was how he’d managed to live this long. And Sean would have destroyed the wrong person. He couldn’t live with himself. Not if he did that.

The malice in those blue eyes was still better than complete and utter blankness.

This was the price of love.

His captor sneered at him. “That’s what I thought.”

A hand reached for him, brushed his temple lightly. Despite the deceptive gentleness, he flinched; as a telepath his temples were sacrosanct. He didn’t even allow lovers to touch him there. His captor knew that, and his eyes sparkled with glee. Like feeling a shirt in the store to judge its quality before trying it on; that’s all the touch was to his captor. “They’ll be mine soon enough.”

“Over my dead body,” he said coldly, eyes narrowed. That was a credible threat, since his captor required a living host and had been deliberately keeping him alive.

“We’ll see.” Then the hands withdrew, and with a last wink his captor walked out of the room; the electricity seemingly didn’t affect him. Supermen were immune to such minor inconveniences as physical pain. Besides, to him the body was disposable; what did it matter in what condition he left it? That well-loved face was a tool, nothing more; a vehicle, not a person.

As he exited, he projected a thought for the telepath to hear.

There’s always your nephew…



*With apologies to Dryope

[L.C. Milliner]

The Fifth of November

“You know, this war thing... It isn’t so bad when you get used to it.”

“Fuck you, Milliner.”

“Sure beats being stateside.”

“Oh yeah, shit. They’d shoot you if they heard of a meta in the army, girl. You’ve got less problems here.”

“...Amen to that.”

---

How long had she been in this hole? How long had she gone without seeing the sun? How long would she hide for, and how long would she last outside if she couldn’t hide?

Lyra didn’t know the answer. But she knew one thing: she couldn’t live in a hole in the bottom of a barn forever.

She had to get out.

In school, which seemed so far away from now, there was a class she took and slept through. There were answers she memorized, vomited back when she had to, and had forgotten after they were needed. Lyra had never believed in government class because she thought the government would sort itself out. But now, she wished she knew the meaning of the government that was running her into the ground.

She wanted to kill it.

---

In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate...

---

When she emerged from her hole, she had what she needed. She had the papers, the documentation, and, most of all, her motive. She had a job in her mind and her jaw set, and she knew that, once she found the man in charge of the people who stole her life, and everything she was, she’d stick her foot up his ass so far that he’d squirt mud out his nostrils.

Once upon a time, she had been given military training. She’d hopped on a bus to basic after school, and then she got shipped off to a war she didn’t believe in. By the time she came back to the U.S. from her stint in Laos, it was too late- everything had gone to hell. She went to Hammel, but it had been blown apart by what looked like bombs- she jumped the wall and heaved the wreckage around. She found the shells of the bombs- the same kind the jets in Iraq were using. She dug around some more and found empty fuel containers- dropped from the sky to lose some dead weight. She knew these containers, and she knew the planes that dropped them. She had been copilot in one of those planes. The epiphany of the events that had transpired rocked her to her core. She vomited, right there, and she ran, because she knew they were watching her now. She knew they knew.

---

“LaRousse?”

“Missing. Family convicted of treason. Fled the United States. His bank accounts were shut down and the funds were siphoned out. Probably to the government. If he’s alive, he’s halfway across the world and is probably someone else.”

“Sean?”

“Went underground. I followed him by his electronic trail, but it stopped. Either he’s gone totally under, or he’s dead. It’s most likely the latter.”

“Verax? He could survive anything.”

“Stupid idiot got himself thrown in Guantanamo as a terrorist. Beat up some military unit after they shot Moe.”

“Moe? Butterfly boy? He’d never hurt anyone.”

“He was arrested for ‘aiding the enemy’. He was using dust to put people under while they were dying, so they arrested and killed him.”

“Oh god.”

“You haven’t asked about them yet.”

“I don’t need to ask about John and Addie, Mia. I know he’s okay, somewhere, and I know she’s okay too.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know him. And I’m not computer illiterate, either. You and Jonah take care of yourselves. It’s a shit world out there.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“What I do best.”

“And that’s...?”

“Bitch.”

---

Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror...

---

They gathered in the sewers of New York City. They heard the call sent over the airwaves, the subliminal messages that crashed the very airwaves of radio stations. ‘Hammel has gone to the rats. Hammel has gone to the rats.’ The graffiti hung on the walls in blinding red, the upside-down triangles with noses, the rats on the walls, and below them read ‘NYC’. They trickled in slowly at first, the smarter ones converging quicker than others. Teachers, students, faculty. She saw a few familiar faces- that lawyer guy and his boyfriend, the coffee shop lady, the Drama teacher, the school nurse, James and Chase... They came and set up camp with her, moving under the city like they owned it. They dressed like the homeless around them, but they moved with more of a purpose. When the big guy and the tiny hacker showed their faces, they camped out under the wifi zones when needed. The government wasn’t finding them, not yet.

New arrivals showed in streams, but the familiar face she wanted to see was not among the crowd.

It worried her.

---

“When I was young, I didn’t realize I had been born on a holiday. I thought that the fifth of November was a day that belonged to me, and only me. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized I was sharing that day with a man who tried to topple a government by blowing up a building. When I first heard of it, in high school, I thought it was stupid- a holiday for a nobody who no one had ever heard anything about. But I realize now that this holiday isn’t for the man, but for the idea he pervaded- the idea that even one citizen could make a difference.

I don’t know about all of you gathered here today, but I am sick of living in a sewer, I am sick of hearing that I’m a bad person because of the mistakes made by people I don’t even know, and I am sick of a government that won’t listen to us, and our calls of injustice! There was a man in sixteen and five, and his name was Guy Fawkes. On the fifth of November, he attempted to blow up parliament.

Well, two weeks from today, on November fifth, two thousand and twelve, we will march onto the streets of NYC, to the United States embassy, and we will start our own revolution- a revolution for our rights as meta-humans, not to be better than homo-sapiens, not to demand our own separate entity, not to even be equal, but to EXIST.

I WANT TO LIVE!”

---

So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand beside me one year from tonight, outside the gates of Parliament, and together we shall give them a fifth of November that shall never, ever be forgot.

---

He came the night before the fifth, when the camp was bustling. Everyone knew where he was wanted, and where he wanted to be. As soon as he came, they directed him to their ‘fearless leader’s’ tent. To say she was surprised to see him was an understatement, and they must have stared at each other for a solid minute before speaking.

“You cut your hair.”

“You don’t look rich anymore.” She was taking apart and reassembling a rifle, a nervous but useful habit she picked up in the army. She closed her eyes and concentrated, putting it together like a puzzle. He sat next to her and they stayed in silence for a while, and finally her rubbed his head, looked at her, and gave a frustrated sigh, then smiled weakly.

“I was in Romania.”

“Europe. Impressive. I was in Laos, then in Minnesota.”

“You hid in Laos?”

“I was stationed in Laos, LaRousse. Get it right. She joked, her gun clicking as the final piece fell into place. He flinched at the sound and they stayed in silence again.

“L.C.-”

“Lyra.”

Zac rolled his eyes. “Force of habit. Lyra, what’re you doing?” He gestured to outside the tent, where the sounds were dying as people fell into fitful bouts of sleep, nervous for the oncoming morning.

“Making myself a martyr.”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “You’re making yourself a hero.”

“No. A hero is someone who gets other people killed.”

“Martyrs die, Lyra.”

“Zac.” She came close to him, her face inches from his. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, catching her smell. Even if it was horrible, it was somehow still connected, faintly, to that musky, vanilla-esque scent she carried through high school. He opened his eyes and found hers closed to. She was biting her lip. She opened hers, blinked, and sighed. “Zac. I can’t live like this anymore.”

“You can’t die like this, either.”

She paused, for she had nothing to say.

---

“I told you, only truth. For 20 years, I sought only this day. Nothing else existed... until I saw you. Then everything changed. I fell in love with you Evey. And to think I no longer believed I could.”

“But I don't want you to die.”

“That's the most beautiful thing you could have ever given me.”

[/size]