The harsh fluorescent lights of the examination room seemed to amplify the throbbing in Declan’s head. He sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, gingerly touching the bandage on his forehead where he’d cracked his head falling in the mill. Across from him, Danielle was recounting their harrowing escape from the creature to a young, attentive doctor.
“It was like something out of a nightmare,” she was saying, her voice trembling slightly. “This…thing…it was like a walking skeleton, but so fast, so strong.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill that went deeper than the cool air of the ER.
Declan’s gaze drifted to the battered package still clutched in his hand. The evidence. He had to get it to Connor, to expose the truth about the Kings Horn, about Quill, about the horrors he’d witnessed at the veterans’ hospital.
He reached for his phone, but as he’d feared, there was still no signal. Rural Oklahoma, beautiful as it was, had a knack for cutting you off from the world when you needed it most.
“Any luck?” he asked Danielle, who was now attempting to reach Connor on her phone.
She shook her head, her frustration evident. “Nothing. No bars. It’s like we’ve fallen off the grid.”
The doctor, a woman with kind eyes and a calm demeanor, finished examining Danielle’s sprained ankle. “Well, you’re both incredibly lucky to have escaped with relatively minor injuries,” she said, her tone a mix of professional detachment and genuine concern. “That fall in the mill could have been much worse.”
She turned to Declan, her gaze lingering on the bandage on his forehead. “And you, Mr…?”
“Declan. Declan Harper,” he replied.
“Mr. Harper,” the doctor continued, “I’ve reviewed your intake forms. It seems you haven’t undergone preternatural ability testing.”
Declan felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. He had always avoided the test, clinging to a sense of normalcy in a world that was rapidly shifting around him. But now, after the events of the past few days, after witnessing the terrifying power of the creature, after experiencing the inexplicable shift in the ley line, the question of his own nature loomed large, a shadow hanging over him.
“I… no,” he stammered, suddenly feeling self-conscious, exposed.
“It’s quite unusual these days,” the doctor noted, her tone neutral, but her gaze seemed to linger, as if searching for something in his face, in his demeanor. “Nearly everyone has chosen to be tested since the Act was passed. Peace of mind, you know.”
“I… I just never saw the need,” Declan said, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.
The doctor smiled, a reassuring gesture that did little to ease his apprehension. “Well, it’s a simple blood draw, if you’re interested. It can tell us a lot about your genetic makeup, your potential abilities, your…classification.”
The word “classification” hung in the air, heavy with implications. Declan thought of the Kings Horn, their twisted ideology, their targeting of preternatural citizens based on their abilities. He thought of the creature, its monstrous form, its connection to the dark energy of the ley lines. What if he wasn’t a null? What if he possessed some hidden ability, some latent power that could make him a target?
The doctor seemed to sense his hesitation. “It’s entirely your choice, Mr. Harper. No pressure either way.” She paused, her gaze meeting his, a hint of something unspoken in her eyes. “But knowledge is power, wouldn’t you agree?”
With that, she left the room, leaving Declan alone with his thoughts, with the weight of the evidence in his hand, and with a decision that could change his life forever.
He looked at the package, at the photos of the victims, at the list of names, at the symbol of the Kings Horn. He thought of Danielle, of Connor, of Maddison, of the fight that lay ahead.
He had to know.
He had to understand his place in this new world, in this war that was brewing between the shadows and the light. He had to know if he was a weapon, a target, or something else entirely.
He took a deep breath and reached for the phone, dialing a number he knew by heart.
“Hello, Connor? It’s Declan. I need to tell you something… and I think I’m ready to take that test.”
“Connor, we need to meet. I have… something to show you.” Declan’s voice was low, urgent, the weight of the unspoken truth pressing down on him.
“You’re at the hospital? What happened? Are you hurt?” Concern edged into Connor’s voice, replacing the sleepiness.
Declan hesitated, glancing at Danielle. He couldn't tell Connor everything over the phone. Not here, not now. “I’ll explain everything when we meet,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It’s about the Kings Horn. I have evidence, proof of what they’re doing.” He thought of the photographs, the list of names, the chilling symbol that marked their victims. “But it’s not safe to talk about it here.”
A silence stretched between them, filled only with the static hum of the phone line. Declan could picture Connor at the other end, his brow furrowed, his mind racing, trying to piece together the fragments of information.
“Where are you?” Connor’s voice was sharper now, alert, the weight of Declan’s words sinking in.
“We’re at the LeFlore County Medical Center, the ER,” Declan replied, glancing at the sterile white walls of the examination room. “I… we had a run-in with the Kings Horn.” He couldn’t bring himself to say more, to recount the horrors he’d witnessed, the terror of the chase. Not yet.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Connor said, his voice firm with resolve. “Stay safe, Declan. And Danielle. Whatever you do, stay safe.”
The line went dead, leaving Declan with a hollow feeling of disconnection. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, the weight of the evidence a tangible reminder of the danger they were in.
He looked at Danielle, her expression a mixture of apprehension and determination.
“He’s on his way,” Declan said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Danielle nodded, her gaze lingering on the package he held. “What’s in there, Declan? What did you find?”
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He took a deep breath, the weight of the decision settling upon him. He had to trust Danielle, had to share the burden of this knowledge with her. She had proven herself, had faced the darkness alongside him, had earned his trust.
He opened the package, revealing the photographs, the reports, the list of names, the symbol of the Kings Horn emblazoned on the back of a pale, lifeless hand.
Danielle gasped, her eyes widening in horror as she took in the gruesome images, the chilling details of the Kings Horn's crimes. She reached out, her fingers tracing the outline of the symbol, her touch tentative, as if afraid to awaken the evil it represented.
“This is… this is beyond anything I could have imagined,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Who are these people? Why are they doing this?”
Declan hesitated, weighing his words carefully. He knew he couldn’t tell her everything, not yet, not until he understood the full scope of the conspiracy, the depths of its depravity. But he could share some of what he’d learned, could enlist her help in deciphering the puzzle that lay before them.
“They call themselves the Kings Horn,” he began, his voice low, as if afraid the very walls might have ears. “They believe they’re…cleansing the world, restoring purity.” He thought of Quill’s fanatical gleam, his twisted interpretation of faith, his unwavering belief in the Kings Horn's mission.
“But their methods are…brutal,” he continued, the images of the victims seared into his mind. “They’re targeting preternatural citizens, people like… people like Maddison.”
Danielle’s gaze snapped up to his, her eyes wide with alarm. “Maddison? But he’s… he’s helping us, isn’t he?”
Declan nodded, remembering the lycanthrope’s fierce attack on Quill, the way he’d risked his own life to protect them. “He is. But that makes him a target, too. The Kings Horn see him as a traitor, an abomination.” He thought of Quill’s words, his venomous disdain for those who dared to challenge the Kings Horn's authority. “They won’t stop until he’s…silenced.”
He spread the photographs across the table, his finger tracing the outline of the symbol that haunted each image. “They’re sending a message, Danielle. A warning. And we have to understand it before it’s too late.”
He looked at her, seeing the fear in her eyes, but also the determination, the spark of righteous anger that mirrored his own.
“We have to figure this out,” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “We have to expose them, bring them down, before they hurt anyone else.”
He paused, the weight of his next words settling heavily upon him.
“And we have to find Maddison. We have to make sure he’s safe.”
Just then, the door to the examination room opened, and the doctor re-entered, a syringe and vial in her hand.
“So, Mr. Harper,” she said, her gaze lingering on the scattered evidence, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Have you made a decision?”
Declan glanced at the doctor, then at Danielle, her gaze steady, her support unwavering. He took a deep breath, the weight of the unknown settling upon him.
“Yes,” he said, his voice firm, his resolve unwavering. “I’m ready.”
“Alright, Mr. Harper,” the doctor said, her voice calm and professional. She held up the syringe, the needle glinting under the fluorescent light. “Just a quick prick, and we’ll have your results in no time.”
Declan nodded, trying to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the unease coiling in his gut. He'd spent years avoiding this test, clinging to a sense of normalcy in a world that had become anything but normal. Now, the decision was no longer about peace of mind, but about survival. He had to know his place in this new world, in this war that was brewing between the shadows and the light.
As the doctor approached, Declan couldn't shake the feeling that he was crossing a threshold, a point of no return. Once he knew the truth, once his classification was revealed, everything would change. He would no longer be just Declan Harper, reporter for the Hellen Weekly Herald. He would be something more, something different, something that could either make him a weapon or a target.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the prick of the needle. A sudden, sharp pain shot through his arm, and he winced, fighting the urge to pull away. The doctor withdrew the syringe, her movements practiced and efficient.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she said, her tone light, as if sensing his apprehension. “Now, we just wait a few minutes for the analysis to run its course.” She placed the vial of blood in a small machine on the counter, its screen flickering to life, displaying a series of numbers and graphs.
The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. Declan watched the machine, mesmerized by the flashing lights, feeling a strange detachment from his own body, as if he were observing the scene from a distance.
Danielle sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a silent gesture of support. He could feel the warmth of her touch through the thin fabric of his shirt, a comforting anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
“What if… what if it’s bad?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, breaking the silence.
Declan turned to her, searching her eyes, seeing the reflection of his own fear, but also a flicker of something else, something stronger, something that gave him courage.
“Whatever it is, we’ll face it together,” he said, his voice firm, his resolve solidifying. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that she was right. They were in this together. No matter what.
The machine beeped, signaling the completion of the analysis. The doctor turned towards them, her expression neutral, her professional mask firmly in place.
“Well, Mr. Harper,” she said, picking up a printout from the machine, her gaze scanning the results. “It seems we have a bit of a surprise.”
Declan’s heart leaped into his throat. A surprise? What did that mean? Was he a null, as he had always believed? Or was there something more, something hidden within his genetic code, waiting to be revealed?
Danielle squeezed his hand, her grip tightening as the doctor continued, her voice taking on a tone of professional curiosity.
“It appears you’re… unclassified.”
The word hung in the air, heavy with implications. Declan felt a wave of confusion wash over him. Unclassified? What did that even mean?
The doctor's brow furrowed slightly, a hint of puzzlement in her eyes. “It’s quite rare, actually,” she said. “The test is usually quite definitive. It categorizes individuals based on their genetic markers, their preternatural abilities, their… potential threat level.”
“But yours…” she trailed off, glancing at the printout again, as if searching for an explanation that eluded her. “It’s inconclusive. There are… anomalies. Markers that don’t fit any known classification.”
Declan felt a strange mix of relief and apprehension. On the one hand, he was unclassified, not a target for the Kings Horn’s twisted ideology. He wasn’t a lycanthrope like Maddison, facing discrimination and suspicion at every turn. But on the other hand, this uncertainty, this ambiguity, placed him in a category all his own. A category outside the established order, a category that defied definition.
What did it mean to be unclassified in a world obsessed with classification? What were his abilities, his limitations, his vulnerabilities?
He looked at Danielle, searching her face, hoping for some kind of understanding, some clue as to what this all meant. But her expression mirrored his own—a mixture of confusion and a growing sense of unease.
Suddenly, the door to the examination room burst open, and Connor rushed in, his face pale, his eyes wide with alarm.
“Declan! Danielle! Are you alright?” he exclaimed, his gaze darting around the room, as if expecting to find them in danger.
Declan stood, relieved to see his editor, his friend, a familiar face in this increasingly strange and unsettling world.
“Connor, I… “ he began, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain what had happened, what he had learned, what he had become?
Connor’s gaze fell on the scattered evidence across the table, on the photographs, the list of names, the symbol of the Kings Horn.
“What is all this, Declan?” he asked, his voice low, urgent, the weight of the unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air.
Declan took a deep breath, the weight of the truth settling upon him. He had a story to tell, a story that could expose the darkness that threatened to engulf their town, their community, their world.
“It’s a long story, Connor,” he said, his voice firm, his resolve unwavering. “But I think it’s time you knew the truth about the Kings Horn.”