National History Museum. Bulgaria.

Anise walked slowly down the grand halls of the National Historical Museum in Sofia, Bulgaria. The glass cases were filled with treasures in gold and platinum shapes and adorned by ancient hands, but she wasn’t interested. She was on her first handler assignment to see an agent based out of the Manchester office.

Over the past few months, Anise had gone through several calibrations and worked on her training with Mark whenever he was in town, which was less often than she would have expected. With each calibration, Anise found herself feeling more and more at home in Kyiv. She had set aside her anxiety over her knack, confident in Venus’ work, and focused on becoming a valued analyst and handler for Saturn, even though her coworkers still seemed to hold her at arm’s length. There were a couple of young students in the building now, but that wasn’t her life anymore and she didn’t pay them any attention.

She scanned the room again, making a slow circuit. She had a drawing pad in her arms so she could do mindless sketches of each exhibit while she kept watch on the crowd out of the corner of her eye. She knew her agent toured the museum once a month on a designated day and time, so he’d always be reachable. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her blood felt like lightning from finally being on assignment, even if it was as a handler and not the agent. After what felt like an hour, her agent arrived.

Fox del Sol. Age 29. Based in Manchester, gen’ed and educated as a young child in the Philadelphia Sol Academy, before being sent to a foster team in Atlanta as a teenager. Bio-manipulator. She’d studied his picture, so his orange hair, falling over his ears in waves, and his curved nose were easy to pick out from the crowd. Not to mention his height– he’d be hard to miss by just about anyone. He was taller than she’d expected, though she’d reviewed his file within an inch of its life—6’4” looked different in person than on paper. His limbs were lanky, and he carried himself with a casual, almost sleepy confidence. She waited for him to make his way halfway around the room before approaching him.

He was hovering around a case of pots with intricate designs carved on them, and as she stopped, she dropped her pencil. He automatically bent to pick it up.

“Thank you,” she said, defaulting to Russian. She smiled up at him. “I love a man with blue eyes.” It had seemed like an odd pass-phrase to use, but his eyes were a deep, warm brown.

He smiled in return and gave the counter phrase, in Russian as well. “That’s what my sister always says.” He shifted his stance toward her. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

She wasn’t his normal handler was what he meant, which was true. His handler had been transferred recently and they had received an order from LAHQ to send Fox on his next museum visit.

“I’m just passing through.” She passively listened to his mind, out of curiosity. He was a little on edge because she was new, and he thought she was pretty, if a little young for him.

Fox reached for her sketchbook and she gave it to him, along with her pencil. He flipped through the pages and Anise quietly marveled at how well he played at being truly interested in her terrible drawings. He stopped at one page and began to scribble something on the bottom edge.

“You’re a lousy artist,” he teased quietly as he wrote.

“It’s Impressionistic,” she countered, trying to sound defensive, despite the fact that her sketches were clearly indefensible.

“Oh?” he smirked as he finished writing and flipped to a fresh page, signaling that she didn’t need to read it now. “What exactly is your impression?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “That you’re a lousy flirt.”

He laughed at that and handed her the sketchbook back. Anise took it and wrote out the message from LAHQ, a phone number she’d been instructed to memorize, at the bottom corner. She tore it off and held it out.

She looked at him through her lashes. “Call me.”

Fox slipped the paper into his pocket. “I might do that, Monet.”

She left the museum without looking back. Anise felt lighter than air the entire cab ride to the airport. She’d really, actually done it. Getting a hold of herself, she checked what he’d written. It was a little tough—his penmanship was as bad as her art—but it simply read, “I’m still in good standing. Nothing new to report.” Nothing so bland had ever felt so thrilling.

---

Munich, Germany.

Misha had changed. How could he not? His presence in Reeve’s mind felt like a snake, head reared and watchful, ready to snap at the first movement of his telepathy.

“Let him in, Hannah.” Keeping his voice steady felt like all Reeve had left at that point.

“Is he Neptune?” Gareth asked.

“Of course he’s not Neptune,” Misha scoffed.

“He’s an Icarus. Hannah. He’s not going to find anything that will make him try to make me shoot myself.” Misha gave a short chuckle at the word “try.”

“What happened to the Children of God never using their gifts against the Church?” Alex asked, with venom enough that it made Reeve both proud and scared for him.

“You are not Church,” Misha answered matter-of-factly.

Just do it, he heard Hannah’s urgent thought and saw Misha register it, too. Reeve found his opening as Misha’s telepathy slid to read Hannah and he surged forward, blotting out all entrance to his mind. He closed his eyes, hands working automatically from memory to eject the magazine from his pistol. The weight of it hit his lap and he felt like he could pass out if he let himself. The gun was ripped from his hands and Reeve opened his eyes, shocked. Gareth ejected the bullet that was in the chamber and pushed the pistol back into his hands.

“I’m fine,” Reeve said, mostly to Alex.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” Gareth muttered, glancing around the bar.

Misha released his hold on Hannah and reached into his pocket. He threw some bills on the table without looking at them. “My place. We can talk there.”

Reeve, Hannah thought, but he shook his head at her, watching Misha stand and head for the door. His coat was long, normal for the Church. It was patched in many places and stained in more. They followed him out the door. Reeve grabbed Shvedov’s elbow as they walked by and he fell into step behind them. Misha led them around the corner into the alley behind the pub and started up the metal fire escape. Reeve looked at the others. Gareth shrugged. They followed.

By the time they got to the top, Misha had unlocked the narrow door and gone inside the flat above the bar. It was smoky and sparse, with equipment scattered all around. Misha lit a kerosene lantern with a matchbook from his pocket, adjusting the wick to make it bright enough to light the whole room. In the bright light, Reeve could see Misha’s knuckles were swollen and painful looking. He set it on a low table and sat crossed-legged on a blanket-covered futon. Shvedov, last in, closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Hannah blinked into place, her arms folded across her chest.

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“What the fuck is going on?” Gareth snapped. “Are you okay, Hannah? Does this guy even know Noah?”

“Of course I know Noah. Jesus Christ.” Misha tapped out a cigarette. “You were looking for a tracker, I am the tracker.”

“This is Misha del Sol,” Reeve said, looking at Gareth.

“Just Misha now.” He scowled around the filter as he lit it.

“We were in the LAHQ Academy together. In the same year.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Misha asked, clicking his tongue absentmindedly. “Icarus happen. They always will in a system like the Corp. They will go after you, but some shit is unavoidable. But you took a whole fucking team. Are you stupid?”

“This wasn’t exactly the plan.”

“They won’t let you go,” he said, lowering his head to look up at Reeve. “All these agents, a goddamn foster. It’s not a defection, it’s a rebellion, and they’ll hunt you more than they ever hunted me.”

Reeve focused on Misha, trying to ignore the pangs of fear swirling around him. “Which is why we need to find The Network.”

Misha waved a hand. “Noah mentioned it.”

“Do you know where they are?” Hannah asked.

“Nyet, I’ve never looked. Why would I want that many Icarus around? It’s a sitting target.”

“It’s a fortified target.” Reeve cocked his head. “How long have you been running?”

Misha laughed. “You’re kidding right?”

Reeve lowered his brow, narrowing his eyes. “No,” he said, as sincerely as he could.

“I’ve been out of Sol since Adam.”

Reeve felt his arms and legs go numb. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that name spoken out loud.

“Is that some religious, Church saying?” Hannah asked.

“What the fuck? No, it’s a person. Our teacher.”

Reeve closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take stock of his limbs and fingers, coaxing his muscles from spasming. “When?” he asked Misha.

“Partway through Reintegration. Got out before they could finish scrambling my brain. You thought I had stayed?”

“We all did.”

“They fucked with your head?” Misha asked. Reeve didn’t answer. “What do you remember?”

“Enough.” His voice was huskier than he wanted it to be. Reeve glanced around the room. He wasn’t going to get out of this easily. “It’s hazy.” He shook his head. “Contradictory.”

“You never told us you’d been Reintegrated,” Hannah said gently. She’d be feeling his unease. He tried to bite it back.

“I was fourteen. It was a long time ago.”

Misha raised his eyebrows. I’m surprised they gave you a student.

Something red-hot rose in Reeve’s chest. Drop this now, he thought to Misha with more force than he intended.

“You should probably stay here tonight,” Misha said, standing up and discreetly wiping off blood from his nose. “There’s no electricity, but the hot water’s connected to the bar downstairs. I might have blankets in that closet.”

“Will you help us find the Network?” Shvedov asked from nearly beyond the circle of lamplight.

“I’ll look. And try to keep you idiots alive a little bit longer. I need sleep.”

“Drop my telepathy,” Reeve called.

He turned, shaking his head with a small smile. “I don’t trust you that much.”

“Likewise. Mimic Gareth. Trust me just that much.”

He saw the expression on Misha’s face shift and felt Gareth’s blind disgust behind him. Misha stood there a moment more, then turned to walk down the hall.

Watching him go, Reeve realized he had been dead wrong. He could remember exactly the last time someone had said Adam’s name out loud.

---

“Reeve.” Alex wasn’t sure if he should look at him and picked at a callous on his hand. He could hear his pulse in his ears. Reeve turned back around to them. He looked pale.

“Why did you do that?” Gareth demanded, his shoulders shaking.

Reeve blinked as though that was the one question he wasn’t expecting. “Do what?”

“Why did you tell him to take my knack?”

“He didn’t take it. You still have it, he’s just copying it.”

“Reeve,” Hannah scolded in her ‘that’s not the point and you know it’ voice.

He turned to the side, swiping the back of his hand across his brow. “He’s sick,” Reeve said with a lowered voice. “I remember… He has Lupus I think, related to his knack. Flares up when he mimics. It was painful.”

Alex’s stomach felt sour. “Why have I never seen this? I Read you all the time.”

“You know I keep back the worst things from you. You Read me to ground yourself, not wade through my shit.” Reeve looked sad. Alex clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Everyone sit down,” Shvedov called, dropping his bag on the floor and finding a seat.

“Did you already know this?” Gareth snapped at him.

“No. But standing on our feet all night won’t help settle things.”

Alex took Hannah’s hand and pulled her to an oversized armchair, one they could both fit into, if tightly.

“Is there really anything to settle?” Reeve sighed, dropping to the ground, long legs drawn up at the knee.

“Yes,” Hannah said firmly. “You were in Academy together?”

“Yeah. He was a transfer from the Kyiv Academy when they closed it down.”

“Were you friends?”

A smile creeped up one half of Reeve’s face. “I wouldn’t have called us friends.” His mouth dropped like a flatline. “But we had the same mentor.”

“Adam,” Alex said. Reeve just barely flinched and Alex regretted it.

“He was erased my junior year. All the students he had mentored, and a few others, were put through Reintegration, or at least I thought they were.”

“What the hell did he do?” Hannah asked, eyes a little wide.

Reeve rubbed at his face. “His teaching style was unorthodox. Unapproved. He snuck students out of the building for real life lessons.”

"And all this time, you never fucking said anything. Let us believe Beatty was your first time out of that building." Gareth's nostrils flared with anger as he spoke, but he kept his voice moderated. Reeve met his eyes, but didn't speak.

“They killed him for that? Your mentor.” Alex stared at shadows moving on the floor.

He nodded.

“I’m glad we fucking left.”

“Can we trust this guy?” Alyosha asked, probably changing the subject to help Reeve. Alex made a note to glare at him about it later.

“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “The last time I saw him, he was a scrawny, sickly sixteen-year-old who smoked too much pot and never really gave a shit about anyone’s feelings.”

“At least we can say he’s no friend of Sol,” Hannah offered.

“Noah says he can find the Network. I say we stay with him for now. Besides, he’s avoided Neptune for over a decade. He’s doing something right.”

“You didn’t think it was weird when he didn’t come back to class?” Hannah asked, her voice a little sharp.

“I never went back to the Academy. I finished out my time in one-on-one training.”

“And they still put you in charge of a team,” Gareth mused.

Reeve smiled thinly. “Is that ever not going to sting?” He shrugged. “I had been at the top of my class before it all went down, even having skipped two years. I Reintegrated. It wasn’t fast.”

“Are you okay?” Alex asked, his mouth dry.

“I’m fine. I’d like to be doing anything else but this right now, though.”

Alex nodded and gave Hannah’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going to find the bathroom.” No one argued, so he got up and stiffly crossed through the kitchen and into the hallway. He found the door to the narrow bathroom and walked in, closing it behind him. He stood in the dark, flipping the light switch on and off a couple of times before he remembered that there was no power. All he had were the street lights filtering in through a slit of a window, just a few inches tall, up by the ceiling. He found the sink and ran cold water. He let it run over his hands and wrists before rubbing it on his face. There were no towels that he could find.

Standing up, he looked at the dark, vague figure of his reflection as the water dripped from his chin. He wanted this cold water thing to be as grounding as it seemed like it should be. He tried to see his eyes, leaning in, but only caught glints of what could have been water. He lit up his phone, squinting from the glare. He pissed, flushed, and walked back out into the hallway.

Hannah was standing there in the dim light and he had a shock of worry that he’d been standing in the dark all Bloody Mary for an hour or something.

“We roshambo’ed for the spare room,” she said. “I won. There’s room for one more if you wanna squeeze.”

“Thanks,” he said, wiping most of the water off his face with the back of his arm. She held up his bag and he took it, glancing down the hall, back toward the lamplight. He could see Gareth standing by the door, getting undressed, lit up in strange shadows from below. Reeve was backlit, but he knew his posture and shape by heart.

The spare room was too small to be a bedroom. It couldn’t have possibly been intended for that. The twin bed took up an easy third of the space and they stumbled over folded cots piled in a corner. Hannah kept her phone lit up long enough for them to scramble under the sheets. The sheets were cheap and were the strange sort of cold that felt almost damp. They were crowded together, all elbows while they got settled, yanking the too-thin blanket up high. He was too tired and too out of it to want to talk, so he pressed his forehead against her shoulder and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come. His knack pulled at him and he let it murmur at the edge of his awareness. A parade of strange faces climbing in and out of the tiny bed, flashes of Hannah on the plane, back in Beatty.

Alex bit his cheek. He felt the cold water from earlier on his face again, saw his black shadow-face in the mirror. “Turn over,” he whined, trying to push it aside.

She did without comment. He slipped his arm over her waist and she patted his leg with one icy foot. Sleep didn’t come.

***