“Holy Shit,” Frank mumbles.

We freeze, gaping at the incoherent Premier Sheridan—her skirt torn at the hem, ripped up to the waistband. Her white silk shirt is heavily stained by the black Oblivion dripping from her chin.

She turns to us, her eyes wide with childlike fear, and raises a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

I shudder, half expecting Harding to grab me from behind. The thought is so vivid I turn around, expecting to see him right behind me. It’s like I can feel him looking over my shoulder, grinning.

“Lena, you hearin’ this?” Frank calls over his radio, but there’s only static in reply. “Lena? Are we broadcasting?”

“We need to help her, Frank.” I motion to his rucksack, where I know he’s packed at least one bottle of Composure.

“That’s meant for you,” he says with a look of concern. “What if we get stuck out here and your dose wears off?”

The constant threat of my long-term Composure fading is going to be difficult to get used to. But I suppose if Dani can adjust, so can I. On the other hand, it’s more difficult to reconcile this kind of caring look with Frank—it’s fatherly, more the way he’d look at Dani than me. Or, maybe the look Caleb might give me.

I shake my head, eager to move on. “I’m fine. We need her.”

He sighs, but nods and hands over the small bottle.

A knot forms in my stomach as I turn back to Sheridan. She hasn’t moved, still sitting with her legs curled beneath her. She looks up at me in wonder as I step closer, her Oblivion-smeared face a patchwork of horror and innocence. “Going now?”

I’m used to Sheridan barking one-liners to cameras for the newsfeeds, or spitting judgemental vitriol about the Abandoned and their ‘cancerous spread’. Her voice is usually low and raspy—strong and assured, but clear enough to carry weight.

Nothing like the frightened little child I can hear in her words in this warehouse.

“Yes,” I say, crouching down to her height and reaching for her, calming her like a wild animal. “We can go, soon. But I have a drink for you, here.”

Sheridan frowns and shakes her head, drawing her knees closer and pouting. “Drinks bad,” she says, side-eyeing the green liquid in the bottle. More of the black spittle on her chin dribbles down to her shirt, soaking her chest with black saliva.

I desperately want to clean her up, wipe away the black mess on her face so I can stop seeing Caleb’s face superimposed over hers. But slowly, gently—people can react so differently with Oblivion in their system. I’ve been punched in the face enough times to know it.

“I know, drinks can be bad,” I nod, giving her a sympathetic look. “But this drink is good. It’ll help you feel normal again.”

Sheridan’s pouting lips wobble as she considers this, her eyebrows drawing together in grief. But she pulls further away, squirming uncertainly, here gaze darting back and forth between me and Frank.

“Shit,” Frank says, glancing around the warehouse and shifting awkwardly on his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here, Kyla.”

“I know, Frank,” I say, still keeping my voice calm and soft to avoid scaring Sheridan. “But we have to help her.”

“Just leave her,” Frank says irritably. “She got herself in this mess.”

No, I don’t believe that. Not for a second. No matter what she’s done, something else is going on, here. “She didn’t ask for this to happen,” I reason, smiling all the while at Sheridan, who didn’t seem to understand what we were saying so much as how we were saying it. “People don’t ask to have this done for them. This was Harding, for sure.”

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Frank sighs. “Alright, fine.”

He drops his backpack on the floor, crossing over to Sheridan in three long strides and grabbing her by her upper arms. She cries out like an animal as he hauls her to her feet, and I’m back in the alley again, where we’d found Dani after I got them in trouble.

Sheridan screams incomprehensible insults, and kicks at his shins, but Frank’s hold is firm. He presses his lips together and gives me a curt nod.

It’s too late to complain about his methods. That talk could come later. I uncork the bottle of Composure and hold Sheridan’s chin, trying to keep her face still so I can drizzle the syrup into her mouth. She clamps her lips shut and turns away.

It takes some time, but eventually we get her to drink enough of the Composure dose to clear her mind, at least a little bit. Frank holds her still while it takes effect, keeping a tight hold of her even as she stops resisting, her head hanging forward, arms relaxing in his grip.

“Sheridan?” Frank mutters. “You with us?”

She groans noncommittally, apparently half-conscious.

Frank settles her on the floor, and I help to arrange her body in a more comfortable sitting position. Just as I pull the hem of her skirt down to cover her thigh, she gasps and sits bolt upright.

“Who are you? Where’s Harding?”

I hold out my hands. “Easy, we’re not going to hurt you.”

Sheridan turns to me with a sharp look. The child is gone, replaced by the cold, steely politician. “That doesn’t answer either of my questions.”

“We’re with the Abandoned,” Frank says abruptly.

Sheridan scowls. “Why? What did they ever do for you?”

Frank tenses, and I hold a hand in front of his chest to hold him back. Stepping between them, I fold my arms across my chest and try as hard as I can to project confidence.

“Premier Sheridan, my name is Kyla Chase. We found you here, in Warehouse 22.”

“Harding left me here,” Sheridan glances at the exits, her lip curling as she recalls some dark memory.

“We’re not with Harding. Like Frank said, we’re with the Abandoned. And you’re going give us an interview, tell the truth to everyone in Skycross.”

Something halfway between a laugh and a hiccup escapes her, and she smiles at me. “The truth about what, exactly?”

Frank pushes past me, pointing in Sheridan’s face. “About how inmates in reform are used for slave labour. About how you’re profiteering from people’s misery. That Emotiv is just a subset of Skycross’ government, used to control its population. Pick one.”

Despite the sudden verbal attack from Frank—a man who greatly resenbles a large bear—Sheridan laughs again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Frank produces a bottle of Honesty. “We’ll see about that.”

The Premier shrugs. “Fine, dose me if you like. Come, let’s make it simpler.”

She stands, a little shakily, but holds out her hand with an imperious look. When Frank doesn’t hand over the bottle, she grabs it impatiently and rolls her eyes, opening it and chugging the contents without hesitation.

Once the bottle is completely empty, she crumples it in her hand and throws it on the floor. She raises her eyebrows. “Well? Fire away.”

“What happens to the inmates in reform, when they’re no use to you anymore?”

“I don’t know. Next.”

Frank frowns. “How much profit have you personally made from the prisoners in reform?”

“I am paid a stipend as a Premier of Skycross. I have no personal financial interests in any business within or without of the city. Next.”

I wonder whether Sheridan is immune to Honesty in the same way I can resist Compliance. Does everyone have a streak within them that can overpower Emotiv’s syrups? Is she just too good at lying?

She holds herself stiffly, like she’s waiting for an attack, but her chin juts out defiantly, and she doesn’t hesitate to answer. Of course, she might have a script so well rehearsed, it comes as second nature to her. But I’ve been on the receiving end of Honesty—it’s not so easy to resist.

Frank is growing increasingly frustrated, his face turning red. “How can you—“

“Who’s your superior?” I interrupt, holding up a hand.

A slow smile spreads across Sheridan’s face. “I answer directly to Dennis Harding, Officer in Chief of the Wardens of Skycross.”

Frank, who had been about to protest my interruption, turns back to Sheridan with a stunned look. “What?”

“Who does Harding answer to?” I press on, ignoring him.

“I don’t know.”

I nod, starting to understand. “Did you know about the proudction line in reform?”

“No,” Sheridan says, her smile fading. “I didn’t know anything about reform. Not until one of my assistants showed me that video…” She shudders.

“The video of Caleb?” My chest tightens.

She nods. “I saw that and… asked Harding what kind of scheme he was running down there. And… well,” she shrugs, motioning to the warehouse, “you can see how well he took that.”

“Where’s Harding now?”

“When he was here he said something about a hideout, needing to find someone. That’s all I know.”

Frank and I turn to look at each other simultaneously. He turns to his microphone. “Lena? Lena, do you copy?”

At the exact same time, I call into mine, “Dani, Dani?”

But there’s only static.