Imagine Me Page 14

  He stalks toward the boy strapped down on the bed and says, “This young man is part of an ongoing experiment.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.

  Anderson bends over the boy, toying with various wires, and then stiffens, suddenly. Looks up at me out of the corner of his eye. “Can you imagine why this boy is part of an experiment?”

  “No sir.”

  “He has a gift,” Anderson says, straightening. “He came to me voluntarily and offered to share it with me.”

  I blink, still uncertain how to respond.

  “But there are many of you—Unnaturals—running wild on this planet,” Anderson says. “So many powers. So many different abilities. Our asylums are teeming with them, overrun with power. I have access to nearly anything I want. So what makes him special, hmm?” He tilts his head at me. “What power could he possibly have that would be greater than yours? More useful?”

  Again, I say nothing.

  “Do you want to know?” he asks, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

  This feels like a trick. I consider my options.

  Finally, I say, “I want to know only if you want to tell me, sir.”

  Anderson’s smile blooms. White teeth. Genuine pleasure.

  I feel my chest warm at his quiet praise. Pride straightens my shoulders. I avert my eyes, staring quietly at the wall.

  Still, I see Anderson turn away again, appraising the boy with another single, careful look. “These powers were wasted on him anyway.”

  He removes the touchpad slotted into a compartment of the boy’s bed and begins tapping the digital screen, scrolling and scanning for information. He looks up, once, at the monitors beeping out various vitals, and frowns. Finally, he sighs, dragging a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. I think it looks better for being mussed. Warmer. Softer. Familiar.

  The observation frightens me.

  I turn away sharply and glance out the window, wondering, suddenly, if I will ever be allowed to use the bathroom.

  “Juliette.”

  The angry timbre of his voice sends my heart racing. I straighten in an instant. Look straight ahead.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, sounding a little breathless.

  I realize then that he’s not even looking at me. He’s still typing something into the touchpad when he says, calmly, “Were you daydreaming?”

  “No, sir.”

  He returns the touchpad to its compartment, the pieces connecting with a satisfying metallic click.

  He looks up.

  “This is growing tiresome,” he says quietly. “I’m already losing patience with you, and we haven’t even come to the end of your first day.” He hesitates. “Do you want to know what happens when I lose patience with you, Juliette?”

  My fingers tremble; I clench them into fists. “No, sir.”

  He holds out his hand. “Then give me what belongs to me.”

  I take an uncertain step forward and his outstretched hand flies up, palm out, stopping me in place. His jaw clenches.

  “I am referring to your mind,” he says. “I want to know what you were thinking when you lost your head long enough to gaze out the window. I want to know what you are thinking right now. I will always want to know what you’re thinking,” he says sharply. “In every moment. I want every word, every detail, every emotion. Every single loose, fluttering thought that passes through your head, I want it,” he says, stalking toward me. “Do you understand? It’s mine. You are mine.”

  He comes to a halt just inches from my face.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, my voice failing me.

  “I will only ask this once more,” he says, making an effort to moderate his voice. “And if you ever make me work this hard again to get the answers I need, you will be punished. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes narrow. “What were you daydreaming about?”

  I swallow. Look at him. Look away.

  Quietly, I say:

  “I was wondering, sir, if you would ever let me use the bathroom.”

  Anderson’s face goes suddenly blank.

  He seems stunned. He regards me a moment longer before saying, flatly: “You were wondering if you could use the bathroom.”

  “Yes, sir.” My face heats.

  Anderson crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s all?”

  I feel suddenly compelled to tell him what I thought about his hair, but I fight against the urge. Guilt floods through me at the indulgence, but my mind is soothed by a strange, familiar warmth, and suddenly I feel no guilt at all for being only partly truthful.

  “Yes, sir. That’s all.”

  Anderson tilts his head at me. “No new surges of anger? No questions about what we’re doing here? No concerns over the well-being of the boy”—he points—“or the powers he might have?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see,” he says.

  I stare.

  Anderson takes a deep breath and undoes a button of his blazer. He pushes both hands through his hair. Begins to pace.

  He’s becoming flustered, I realize, and I don’t know what to do about it.

  “It’s almost funny,” he says. “This is exactly what I wanted, and yet, somehow, I’m disappointed.”

  He takes a deep, sharp breath, and spins around.

  Studies me.

  “What would you do,” he says, nodding his head an inch to his left, “if I asked you to throw yourself out that window?”

  I turn, examining the large window looming over us both.

  It’s a massive, circular stained glass window that takes up half the wall. Colors scatter across the ground, creating a beautiful, distracted work of art over the polished concrete floors. I walk over to window, run my fingers along the ornate panes of glass. I peer down at the expanse of green below. We’re at least five hundred feet above the ground, but the distance doesn’t inspire my fear. I could make that jump easily, without injury.

  I look up. “I would do it with pleasure, sir.”

  He takes a step closer. “What if I asked you to do it without using your powers? What if it was simply my desire that you throw yourself out the window?”

  A wave of searing, blistering heat moves through me, seals shut my mouth. Binds my arms. I can’t pry my own mouth open against the terrifying assault, but I can only imagine it’s part of this challenge.

  Anderson must be trying to test my allegiance.

  He must be trying to trap me into a moment of disobedience. Which means I need to prove myself. My loyalty.

  It takes an extraordinary amount of my own supernatural strength to fight back the invisible forces clamping my mouth shut, but I manage it. And when I can finally speak, I say,

  “I would do it with pleasure, sir.”

  Anderson takes yet another step closer, his eyes glittering with something— Something brand-new. Something akin to wonder.

  “Would you, really?” he says softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you do anything I asked you to do? Anything at all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anderson’s still holding my gaze when he lifts his wrist to his mouth again and says quietly:

  “Come in here. Now.”

  He drops his hand.

  My heart begins to pound. Anderson refuses to look away from me, his eyes growing bluer and brighter by the second. It’s almost like he knows that his eyes alone are enough to upset my equilibrium. And then, without warning, he grabs my wrist. I realize too late that he’s checking my pulse.

  “So fast,” he says softly. “Like a little bird. Tell me, Juliette. Are you afraid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “I— I don’t know, sir.”

  The door slides open and Anderson drops my wrist. For the first time in minutes, Anderson looks away from me, finally breaking some painful, invisible connection between us. My body goes slack with relief and, remem
bering myself, I quickly straighten.

  A man walks in.

  Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He’s young, younger than Anderson, I think, but older than me. He wears a headset. He looks uncertain.

  “Juliette,” Anderson says, “this is Darius.”

  I turn to face Darius.

  Darius says nothing. He looks paralyzed.

  “I won’t be requiring Darius’s services anymore,” Anderson says, glancing in my direction.

  Darius blanches. Even from where I’m standing, I can see his body begin to tremble.

  “Sir?” I say, confused.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Anderson says. “I would like you to dispose of him.”

  Understanding dawns. “Certainly, sir.”

  The moment I turn in Darius’s direction, he screams; it’s a sharp, bloodcurdling sound that irritates my ears. He makes a run for the door and I pivot quickly, throwing out my arm to stop him. The force of my power sends him flying the rest of the way to the exit, his body slamming hard against the steel wall.

  He slumps, with a soft moan, to the ground.

  I open my palm. He screams.

  Power surges through me, filling my blood with fire. The feeling is intoxicating. Delicious.

  I lift my hand and Darius’s body lifts off the floor, his head thrown back in agony, his body run through by invisible rods. He continues to scream and the sound fills my ears, floods my body with endorphins. My skin hums with his energy. I close my eyes.

  Then I close my fist.

  Fresh screams pierce the silence, echoing around the vast, cavernous space. I feel a smile tugging at my lips and I lose myself in the feeling, in the freedom of my own power. There’s a joy in this, in using my strength so freely, in finally letting go.

  Bliss.

  My eyes flutter open but I feel drugged, deliriously happy as I watch his seized, suspended body begin to convulse. Blood spurts from his nose, bubbles up inside his open, gasping mouth. He’s choking. Nearly dead. And I’m just beginning t—

  The fire leaves my body so suddenly it sends me stumbling backward.

  Darius falls, with a bone-cracking thud, to the floor.

  A desperate emptiness burns through me, leaves me feeling faint. I hold my hands up as if in prayer, trying to figure out what happened, feeling suddenly close to tears. I spin around, trying to understand—

  Anderson is pointing a weapon at me.

  I drop my hands.

  Anderson drops his weapon.

  Power surges through me once more and I take a deep, grateful breath, finding relief in the feeling as it floods my senses, refilling my veins. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, but it’s Darius’s pathetic, agonized whimpers that bring me back to the present moment. I stare at his broken body, the shallow pools of blood on the floor. I feel vaguely annoyed.

  “Incredible.”

  I turn around.

  Anderson is staring at me with unvarnished amazement. “Incredible,” he says again. “That was incredible.”

  I stare at him, uncertain.

  “How do you feel?” he asks.

  “Disappointed, sir.”

  His eyebrows pull together. “Why disappointed?”

  I glance at Darius. “Because he’s still alive, sir. I didn’t complete the task.”

  Anderson’s face breaks into a smile so wide it electrifies his features. He looks young. He looks kind. He looks wonderful.

  “My God,” he says softly. “You’re perfect.”

  KENJI

  “Hey,” I call out. “Wait up!”

  I’m still sprinting after Warner and, in a move that surprises absolutely no one, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even slow down. In fact, I’m pretty sure he speeds up.

  I realize, as I pick up the pace, that I haven’t felt fresh air in a couple of days. I look around as I go, trying to take in the details. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it. There’s no cloud in sight for miles. I don’t know if this weather is unique to the geographical location of Sector 241, or if it’s just regular climate change. Regardless, I take a deep breath. Air feels good.

  I was getting claustrophobic in the dining hall, spending endless hours with the ill and injured. The colors of the room had begun to bleed together, all the linen and ash-colored cots and the too-bright, unnatural light. The smells were intense, too. Blood and bleach. Antiseptic. It was making my head swim. I woke up with a massive headache this morning—though, to be fair, I wake up with a massive headache almost every morning—but being outside is beginning to soothe the ache.

  Who knew.

  It’s nice out here, even if it’s a little hot in this outfit. I’m wearing a pair of old fatigues I found in my room. Sam and Nouria made sure from the start that we had everything we needed—even now, even after the battle. We have toiletries. Clean clothes.

  Warner, on the other hand—

  I squint at his retreating figure. I can’t believe he still hasn’t taken a shower. He’s still wearing Haider’s leather jacket, but it’s practically destroyed. His black pants are torn, his face still smudged with what I can only imagine is a combination of blood and dirt. His hair is wild. His boots are dull. And somehow—somehow—he still manages to look put together. I don’t get it.

  I slow my pace when I pull up next to him, but I’m still power walking. Breathing hard. Beginning to sweat.

  “Hey,” I say, pinching my shirt away from my chest, where it’s starting to stick. The weather is getting weirder; it’s suddenly sweltering. I wince upward, toward the sun.

  Here, within the Sanctuary, I’ve been getting a better idea of the state of our world. News flash: The earth is still basically going to shit. The Reestablishment has just been taking advantage of the aforementioned shit, making things seem irreparably bad.

  The truth, on the other hand, is that they’re only reparably bad.

  Ha.

  “Hey,” I say again, this time clapping Warner on the shoulder. He shoves off my hand with so much enthusiasm I nearly stumble.

  “Okay, listen, I know you’re upset, but—”

  Warner suddenly disappears.

  “Hey, where the hell are you going?” I shout, my voice ringing out. “Are you heading back to your room? Should I just meet you there?”

  A couple of people turn to stare at me.

  The normally busy paths are pretty empty right now because so many of us are still convalescing, but the few people lingering in the bright sun shoot me dirty looks.

  Like I’m the weirdo.

  “Leave him alone,” someone hisses at me. “He’s grieving.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Hey—douche bag,” I shout, hoping Warner’s still close enough to hear me. “I know you love her, but so do I, and I’m—”

  Warner reappears so close to my face I nearly scream. I take a sudden, terrified step backward.

  “If you value your life,” he says, “don’t come near me.”

  I’m about to point out that he’s being dramatic, but he cuts me off.

  “I didn’t say that to be dramatic. I didn’t even say it to scare you. I’m saying it out of respect for Ella, because I know she’d rather I didn’t kill you.”

  I’m quiet for a full second. And then I frown.

  “Are you fucking with me right now? You’re definitely fucking with me right now. Right?”

  Warner’s eyes go flinty. Electric. That scary kind of crazy.

  “Every single time you claim to understand even a fraction of what I’m feeling, I want to disembowel you. I want to sever your carotid artery. I want to rip out your vertebrae, one by one. You have no idea what it is to love her,” he says angrily. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine. So stop trying to understand.”

  Wow, sometimes I really hate this guy.

  I have to literally clench my jaw to keep myself from saying what I’m really thinking right now, which is that I want to put my fist through his skull. (I actually imagine it for a moment, imagin
e what it’d be like to crush his head like a walnut. It’s oddly satisfying.) But then I remember that we need this asshole, and that J’s life is on the line. The fate of the world is on the line.

  So I fight back my anger and try again.

  “Listen,” I say, making an effort to gentle my voice. “I know what you guys have is special. I know that I can’t really understand that kind of love. I mean, hell, I know you were even thinking about proposing to her—and that must’ve—”

  “I did propose to her.”

  I suddenly stiffen.

  I can tell just by the sound of his voice that he’s not joking. And I can tell by the look on his face—the infinitesimal flash of misery in his eyes—that this is my opening. This is the data I’ve been missing. This is the source of the agony that’s been drowning him.

  I scan the immediate area for eavesdroppers. Yep. Too many new members of the Warner fan club clutching their hearts.

  “Come on,” I say to him. “I’m taking you to lunch.”

  Warner blinks, confusion temporarily clearing his anger. And then, sharply: “I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s obviously bullshit.” I look him up and down. He looks good—he always looks good, the asshole—but he looks hungry. Not just the regular kind of hungry, either, but that desperate hunger that’s so hungry it doesn’t even feel like hunger anymore.

  “You haven’t eaten anything in days,” I say to him. “And you know better than I do that you’ll be useless on a rescue mission if you pass out before you even get there.”

  He glares at me.

  “Come on, bro. You want J to come home to skin and bones? The way you’re going, she’ll take one look at you and run screaming in the opposite direction. This is not a good look. All these muscles need to eat.” I poke at his bicep. “Feed your children.”

  Warner jerks away from me and takes a long, irritated breath. The sound of it almost makes me smile. Feels like old times.

  I think I’m making progress.

  Because this time, when I tell him to follow me, he doesn’t fight.

  ELLA

  JULIETTE

  Anderson takes me to meet Max.

  I follow him down into the bowels of the compound, through winding, circuitous paths. Anderson’s steps echo along the stone and steel walkways, the lights flickering as we go. The occasional, overly bright lights cast stark shadows in strange shapes. I feel my skin prickle.