Imagine Me Page 11

  —and despite the fact that Warner’s been killing himself for the oversight, Castle says it was precisely because of Warner that any of us are still alive.

  There weren’t supposed to be any survivors. That was Anderson’s decree. The command he gave after I went down.

  Warner figured out the trick just in time.

  His ability to harness the soldier’s powers and use it against him was our one saving grace, apparently, and when the dude realized he had competition, he took what he could get and ran.

  Which means he managed to snag an unconscious Haider and Stephan. It means Anderson escaped.

  And J, of course.

  It means they got J.

  “Should we head back?” Alia says quietly. “Castle was awake when I left. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, get to my feet. Pull myself together. “Any update on James, by the way? Is he cleared for visitors yet?”

  Alia shakes her head. Stands up, too. “Not yet,” she says. “But he’ll be awake soon. The girls are optimistic. Between his healing powers and theirs, they feel certain they’ll be able to get him through it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Wrong.

  I’m not sure of anything.

  The wreckage left in the wake of Anderson’s attack has laid all of us low. Sonya and Sara are working around the clock. Sam was severely injured. Nazeera is still unconscious. Castle is weak. Hundreds of others are trying to heal.

  A serious darkness has descended upon us all.

  We fought hard, but we took too many hits. We were too few to begin with. There was only so much any of us could do.

  These are the things I keep telling myself, anyway.

  We start walking.

  “This feels worse, doesn’t it?” Alia says. “Worse than last time.” She stops, suddenly, and I follow her line of sight, study the scene before us. The torn-down buildings, the detritus along the paths. We did our best to clean up the worst of it, but if I look in the wrong place at the wrong time, I can still find blood on broken tree branches. Shards of glass.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Somehow, this is so much worse.”

  Maybe because the stakes were higher. Maybe because we’ve never lost J before. Maybe because I’ve never seen Warner this lost or this broken. Angry Warner was better than this. At least angry Warner had some fight left in him.

  Alia and I part ways when we enter the dining tent. She’s been volunteering her time, going from cot to cot to check on people, offering food and water where necessary, and this dining tent is currently her place of work. The massive space has been made into a sort of convalescent home. Sonya and Sara are prioritizing major injuries; minor wounds are being treated the traditional way, by what’s left of the original staff of doctors and nurses. This room is stacked, end to end, with those of us who are either healing from minor injuries, or resting after major intervention.

  Nazeera is here, but she’s sleeping.

  I drop down in a seat next to her cot, checking up on her the way I do every hour. Nothing’s changed. She’s still lying here, still as stone, the only proof of life coming from a nearby monitor and the gentle movements of her breathing. Her wound was a lot worse than mine. The girls say she’s going to be okay, but they think she’ll be asleep until at least tomorrow. Even so, it kills me to look at her. Watching that girl go down was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness.

  I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. I still feel like shit, but at least I’m awake. Few of us are.

  Warner is one of them.

  He’s still covered in dry blood, refusing to be helped. He’s conscious, but he’s been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling since the day he was dragged in here. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a corpse. I’ve been checking, too, every once in a while—making sure I caught that gentle rise and fall of his chest—just to be certain he was still breathing.

  I think he’s in shock.

  Apparently, once he realized J was gone, he tore the remaining soldiers to pieces with his bare hands.

  Apparently.

  I don’t buy it, of course, because the story sounds just a little to the left of what I consider credible, but then, I’ve been hearing all kinds of shit about Warner these last couple of days. He went from being only relatively consequential to becoming genuinely terrifying to assuming superhero status—in thirty-six hours. In a plot twist I never could’ve expected, people here are suddenly obsessed with him.

  They think he saved our lives.

  One of the volunteers checking my wound yesterday told me that she heard someone else say that they saw Warner uproot an entire tree with only one hand.

  Translation: He probably broke off a tree branch.

  Someone else told me that they’d heard from a friend that some girl had seen him save a cluster of children from friendly fire.

  Translation: He probably shoved a bunch of kids to the ground.

  Another person told me that Warner had single-handedly murdered nearly all the supreme soldiers.

  Translation—

  Okay, that last one is kind of true.

  But I know Warner wasn’t trying to do anyone around here a favor. He doesn’t give a shit about being a hero.

  He was only trying to save J’s life.

  “You should talk to him,” Castle says, and I startle so badly he jumps back, freaking out for a second, too.

  “Sorry, sir,” I say, trying to slow my heart rate. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Castle says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sad. Exhausted. “How are you doing?”

  “As well as can be expected,” I say. “How’s Sam?”

  “As well as can be expected,” he says. “Nouria is struggling, of course, but Sam should be able to make a full recovery. The girls say it was mostly a flesh wound. Her skull was fractured, but they’re confident they can get it nearly back to the way it was.” He sighs. “They’ll be all right, both of them. In time.”

  I study him for a moment, suddenly seeing him like I’ve never seen him before:

  Old.

  Castle’s dreads are untied, hanging loose about his face, and something about the break from his usual style—locs tied neatly at the base of his neck—makes me notice things I’d never seen before. New gray hairs. New creases around his eyes, his forehead. It takes him a little longer to stand up straight like he used to. He seems worn out. Looking like he’s been kicked down one too many times.

  Kind of like the rest of us.

  “I hate that this is the thing that seems to have conquered the distance between us,” he says after a stretch of silence. “But now Nouria and I—both resistance leaders—have each suffered great losses. The whole thing has been hard for her, just as it was for me. She needs more time to recover.”

  I take a sharp breath.

  Even the mention of that dark time inspires an ache in my heart. I don’t allow myself to dwell for too long on the husk of a person Castle became after we lost Omega Point. If I do, the feelings overwhelm me so completely I pivot straight to anger. I know he was hurting. I know there was so much else going on. I know it was hard for everyone. But for me, losing Castle like that—however temporarily—was worse than losing everyone else. I needed him, and it felt like he’d abandoned me.

  “I don’t know,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s not really the same thing, is it? What we lost— I mean, we lost literally everything in the bombing. Not only our people and our home, but years of research. Priceless equipment. Personal treasures.” I hesitate, try to be delicate. “Nouria and Sam only lost half of their people, and their base is still standing. This loss isn’t nearly as great.”

  Castle turns, surprised. “It’s not as if it’s a competition.”

  “I know that,” I say. “It’s just th—”

  “And I wouldn’t want my daughter to know the kind of
grief we’ve experienced. You have no idea the depth of what she’s already suffered in her young life. She certainly doesn’t need to experience more pain to be deserving of your compassion.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I’m only trying to point out th—”

  “Have you seen James yet?”

  I gape at him, my mouth still shaped around an unspoken word. Castle just changed the subject so quickly it nearly gave me whiplash. This isn’t like him. This isn’t like us.

  Castle and I never used to have trouble talking. We never avoided hard topics and sensitive conversations. But things have felt off for a little while now, if I’m being honest. Maybe ever since I realized Castle had been lying to me, all these years, about J. Maybe I’ve been a little less respectful lately. Crossed lines. Maybe all this tension is coming from me— maybe I’m the one pushing him away without realizing it.

  I don’t know.

  I want to fix whatever is happening between us, but right now, I’m just too wrung out. Between J and Warner and James and unconscious Nazeera— My head is in such a weird place I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for much else.

  So I let it go.

  “No, I haven’t seen James,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Still waiting on that green light.” Last I checked, James was in the medical tent with Sonya and Sara. James has his own healing abilities, so he should be fine, physically—I know that—but he’s been through so much lately. The girls wanted to make sure he was fully rested and fed and hydrated before he had any visitors.

  Castle nods.

  “Warner is gone,” he says after a moment, a non sequitur if there ever was one.

  “What? No I just saw him. He—” I cut myself off as I glance up, expecting to find the familiar sight of him lying on his cot like a carcass. But Castle’s right. He’s gone.

  I whip my head around, scanning the room for his retreating figure. I get nothing.

  “I still think you should talk to him,” Castle says, returning to his opening statement.

  I bristle.

  “You’re the adult,” I point out. “You’re the one who wanted him to take refuge among us. You’re the one who believed he could change. Maybe you should be the one to talk to him.”

  “That’s not what he needs, and you know it.” Castle sighs. Glances across the room. “Why is everyone so afraid of him? Why are you so afraid of him?”

  “Me?” My eyes widen. “I’m not afraid of him. Or, I mean, whatever, I’m not the only one afraid of him. Though let’s be real,” I mutter, “anyone with two brain cells to rub together should be afraid of him.”

  Castle raises an eyebrow.

  “Except for you, of course,” I add hastily. “What reason would you have to be afraid of Warner? He’s such a nice guy. Loves children. Big talker. Oh, and bonus: He no longer murders people professionally. No, now murdering people is just a fulfilling hobby.”

  Castle sighs, visibly annoyed.

  I crack a smile. “Sir, all I’m saying is that we don’t really know him, right? When Juliette was around—”

  “Ella. Her name is Ella.”

  “Uh-huh. When she was around, Warner was tolerable. Barely. But now she’s not around, and he’s acting just like the guy I remember when I enlisted, the guy he was when he was working for his dad and running Sector 45. What reason does he have to be loyal or kind to the rest of us?”

  Castle opens his mouth to respond, but just then arrives my salvation: lunch.

  A smiling volunteer comes by, handing out simple salads in bowls of foil. I take the proffered food and plastic silverware with an overenthusiastic thanks, and promptly rip the lid off the container.

  “Warner has been dealt a punishing blow,” Castle says. “He needs us now more than ever.”

  I glance up at Castle. Shove a forkful of salad in my mouth. I chew slowly, still deciding how to respond, when I’m distracted by movement in the distance.

  I look up.

  Brendan and Winston and Ian and Lily are in the corner gathered around a small, makeshift table, all of them holding tinfoil lunch bowls. They’re waving us over.

  I gesture with a forkful of salad. Speak with my mouth full. “You want to join us?”

  Castle sighs even as he stands, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his black pants. I glance over at Nazeera’s sleeping figure as I collect my things. I know, rationally, that she’s going to be fine, but she’s recovering from a full blow to the chest—not unlike J once did—and it hurts to see her so vulnerable. Especially for a girl who once laughed in my face at the prospect of ever being overpowered.

  It scares me.

  “Coming?” Castle says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s already a few steps away, and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, staring at Nazeera.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Right behind you.”

  The minute we sit down at their table, I know something is off. Brendan and Winston are sitting stiffly, side by side, and Ian doesn’t do more than glance at me when I sit down. I find this reception especially strange, considering the fact that they flagged me down. You’d think they’d be happy to see me.

  After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Castle speaks. “I was just telling Kenji,” he says, “that he should be the one to talk to Warner.”

  Brendan looks up. “That’s a great idea.”

  I shoot him a dark look.

  “No, really,” he says, carefully choosing a piece of potato to spear. Wait—where did they get potatoes? All I got was salad. “Someone definitely needs to talk to him.”

  “Someone definitely does,” I say, irritated. I narrow my eyes at Brendan’s potatoes. “Where’d you get those?”

  “This is just what they gave me,” Brendan says, looking up in surprise. “Of course, I’m happy to share.”

  I move quickly, jumping out of my seat to spear a chunk of potato from his bowl. I shove the whole piece in my mouth before I even sit back down, and I’m still chewing when I thank him.

  He looks mildly repulsed.

  I guess I am a bit of a caveman when Warner isn’t around to keep me decent.

  “Anyway, Castle’s right,” Lily says. “You should talk to him, and soon. I think he’s kind of a loose cannon right now.”

  I stab a piece of lettuce, roll my eyes. “Can I maybe eat my lunch before everyone starts jumping down my throat? This is the first real meal I’ve had since I got shot.”

  “No one is jumping down your throat.” Castle frowns. “And I thought Nouria said the normal dining hours went back into effect yesterday morning.”

  “They did,” I say.

  “But you were shot three days ago,” Winston says. “Which means—”

  “All right, okay, calm down, Detective Winston. Can we change the subject, please?” I take another bite of lettuce. “I don’t like this one.”

  Brendan puts down his knife and fork. Hard.

  I straighten.

  “Go talk to him,” he says again, this time with an air of finality that surprises me.

  I swallow my food. Too fast. Nearly choke.

  “I’m serious,” Brendan says, frowning as I cough up a lung. “This is a wretched time for all of us, and you’ve more of a connection with him than anyone else here. Which means you have a moral responsibility to find out what he’s thinking.”

  “A moral responsibility?” My cough turns into a laugh.

  “Yes. A moral responsibility. And Winston agrees with me.”

  I look up, raising my eyebrows at Winston. “I bet he does. I bet Winston agrees with you all the time.”

  Winston adjusts his glasses. He stabs blindly at his food and mutters, “I hate you,” under his breath.

  “Oh yeah?” I gesture between Winston and Brendan with my fork. “What the hell is going on here? This energy is super weird.”

  When no one answers me I kick Winston under the table. He turns away, mumbling nonsense before taking a long pull fr
om his water glass.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. I pick up my own water glass. Take a sip. “Seriously. What’s going on? You two playing footsie under the table or someshit?”

  Winston goes full tomato.

  Brendan picks up his utensils and, looking down at his plate, says, “Go ahead. Tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” I say, glancing between the two of them. When no one responds, I look over at Ian like, What the hell?

  Ian only shrugs.

  Ian’s been quieter than usual. He and Lily have been spending a lot more time together lately, which is understandable, but it also means I haven’t really seen him much in the last couple of days.

  Castle suddenly stands.

  He claps me on the back. “Talk to Mr. Warner,” he says. “He’s vulnerable right now, and he needs his friends.”

  “Are you—?” I make a show of looking around, over my shoulders. “I’m sorry, which friends are you referring to? Because as far as I know, Warner doesn’t have any.”

  Castle narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Don’t deny your own emotional intelligence in favor of petty grievances. You know better. Be better. If you care about him at all, you will sacrifice your pride to reach out to him. Make sure he’s okay.”

  “Why do you have to make it sound so dramatic?” I say, looking away. “It’s not that big of a deal. He’ll survive.”

  Castle rests his hand on my shoulder. Forces me to meet his eyes. “No,” he says to me. “He might not.”

  I wait until Castle is gone before I finally set down my fork. I’m irritated, but I know he’s right. I mumble a general good-bye to my friends as I push away from the table, but not before I notice Brendan smiling triumphantly in my direction. I’m about to give him shit for it, but then I notice, with a start, that Winston has turned a shade of pink so magnificent you could probably see it from space.

  And then, there it is: Brendan is holding Winston’s hand under the table.

  I gasp, audibly.

  “Shut up,” Winston says. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  My enthusiasm withers. “You don’t want to hear me say congratulations?”

  “No, I don’t want to hear you say I told you so.”