At about five miles out, I pushed the button to lower the tires from the undercarriage; seeing as I had yet to master landing, I thought it better to land a safe distance from the actual checkpoint. That way, if I crashed, I’d draw less attention to myself.

Once I landed, with only a minimal amount of bumping and swerving, I drove to the border in a haze. Sweat rolled down my back, pooling in the fabric at the waistband of my pants. I wiped at beads of perspiration dotting my forehead and upper lip with the sleeve of my jacket. I gripped the hand controls of the vehicle so hard that I knew my knuckles were white underneath my black gloves. I could hear my heart pounding, and I prayed that the border guard wasn’t a Talent. I didn’t overly worry because Talents were shunned by The Coalition rather than revered. It was unlikely that one would be working as a border guard.

As I approached, I saw that the border was virtually empty. Only one vehicle occupied any of the ten gates. I focused my energy on my mental abilities and slid the vehicle into the rightmost gate.

A short man with a thick mustache leaned out of the guard booth. I panicked, mentally forcing my window down instead of pressing the button. The guard gave me an odd look. I looked into his dark eyes and locked onto his mind. You saw me press the button to roll the window down, I mentally insisted. If there were cameras at the border crossing—and I assumed that there were—I didn’t want to draw suspicion to myself; I wanted the transaction to appear as normal as possible to anyone watching the surveillance footage. His face relaxed, and he smiled at me. I rewarded him with a toothy grin.

“Good evening,” I greeted him without breaking eye contact.

“Good evening, ma’am. What is your business in Las Vegas?”

“Family visit,” I responded out loud. Ask me for my papers and then let me through, I mentally communicated.

The guard continued to smile. “Do you have your papers, Miss?”

“Of course,” I smiled, handing him several blank pages stapled together. Slowly leaf through the pages, declare everything in order, and then let me through, I commanded.

My last vestiges of anxiety were gone, and I felt truly in control for the first time in months, maybe years. I was in my element. I had complete confidence in my mental abilities. Was I too cocky? Maybe, but I’d been able to bend the will of others for as long as I could remember. My parents had discouraged using my talents against those around me. Mac had discouraged it while I was at school, but he’d always promised that one day I’d be able to use my abilities to their fullest extent. Now I was, and it felt incredible.

The guard made a show of flipping through the blank pages, scanning each in turn as though checking for pertinent information. He handed me back the papers.

Log me in as a visitor; Name: Anna Reynolds; age: 22; reason for visit: to see my father, Arnie Reynolds, I ordered. The guard obediently turned around. I could hear the tap of his fingers hitting the plastic computer keys as he entered the information I’d given him. Arnie was a real Las Vegas resident, and he really did have a daughter named Anna, but our intel indicated that she hadn’t visited her father since she was five. Hopefully, she wouldn’t feel like reconnecting anytime soon.

“Enjoy your visit to our city, Miss,” the guard declared, once he finished entering the data.

“Thank you.” I locked his eyes with mine, giving him a mental image of the real Anna Reynolds. I held his mind until I was confident that he wouldn’t remember a small, freckle-faced girl with curly hair and purple eyes. There was nothing that I could do about the security cameras, but I’d been careful to stay within the confines of the vehicle.

Before the Secession of the Western States, Las Vegas had been an entertainment mecca. After, The Coalition claimed eminent domain on the land to gain control of the hotel casinos, turning the rooms into mandatory living quarters for Las Vegas residents. Now, most of the residents lived on one street in the very center of the city limits—Las Vegas Boulevard. Without their national funding, the states fell into disrepair. The Coalition herded most of their citizens into the cities, and set up border patrols to regulate all incoming and outgoing traffic. The residents lived in poverty when compared with those who resided in states still loyal to The Agency. The Coalition provided all of the necessities for their citizens, but nothing extraneous. Given all of this, it amazed me that people still sought refuge across the border just to escape the Mandatory Talent Testing Act.

The Strip extended several miles. Towering forty-story casino-turned-apartment buildings lined both sides of the street, their splendor long forgotten. Cracked neon signs hung across the front of each complex, announcing the name: Caesars, Bellagio, New York, New York, Treasure Island, and The Wynn. An ancient monorail system connected the four miles of the Strip. At this time of night the trains were still, but I assumed they creaked unsteadily across the rickety rails when they ran during the day. Sky walkways allowed the inhabitants to cross the cracked street without having to navigate the uneven pavement below. Road- and hover-vehicles were rare here—they were too expensive for most Coalition citizens.

After crossing the border, I made for the patch of neon lights that were like beacons in the black of night. Agency loyalists had filed the necessary paperwork to secure me an apartment several miles off the main strip. I flew over the few freestanding homes located inside the border. Without warning, the control panel on the dash started beeping. I glanced down nervously.

“Redirect route. Redirect route,” a mechanical voice cut through the quiet car. Shit! What was going on? This was not good!

“State reason,” I demanded, unsure if the vehicle would respond to my voice.

“Restricted airspace,” the mechanical voice answered. I called up the city map ingrained in my mind. Oh—my current course had me flying straight over Crane’s temporary residence. I cut a wide arc to the right, straining to catch a glimpse of the home as I passed.

It was only a matter of time before the owner of my borrowed hover-car reported it stolen. I scoured the area just past Crane’s temporary housing for a hiding place for the vehicle. The land stretching in every direction was barren; there wasn’t a single tree to conceal the vehicle from hover-cars searching from above. I was forced to double back to an unkempt house about ten miles from the Strip. I was tired, and the thought of running that far to my new apartment wasn’t appealing, but the house appeared unoccupied. I didn’t think that I would have a better option any closer to the center of the city.

After landing, I stashed the car in an empty shed behind the house. I pulled a small bottle of Identi-scure from my pack, and sprayed every surface of the interior with the chemical, removing my fingerprints, hair, and skin cells. After replacing the bottle, I strapped my bag onto my back and set off at a brisk jog back toward the glowing lights.

Almost an hour later, I arrived at the apartment. I did a quick sweep of it to make certain that I was alone. The apartment was almost as barebones as my cabin in Hunters Village. It had one main room, with well-worn carpeting that stretched from one paint-peeled wall to the next. The tiny bedroom held nothing more than a twin-sized bed, but the sheets at least appeared clean. A small white-tiled bathroom completed the apartment. Once I was satisfied that the apartment was safe, I stashed my backpack within arm’s reach of the bed, undressed, and climbed in between the scratchy sheets.

Unlike our safe houses, the apartment didn’t have surveillance cameras or a command center; the only electronics that I’d have access to were the ones I’d brought with me. The apartment served one purpose—a place for me to sleep. Many of my devices uploaded images directly back to the Crypto team at Headquarters, and that made me feel a little less lonely. Still, the only way that I could directly contact anybody within The Agency would be by activating the sub-dermal tracking chip that they’d implanted in my hip.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

The chip was only to be activated in the event of a “true emergency”; the medic who’d embedded it had reiterated this no less than ten times. Any non-emergency messages were to be relayed through TOXIC contacts that were scattered around the city. In return, I had assured him—no less than ten times—that it would take a “true emergency” for me to slice through the layers of skin, muscle, and tendon IN MY OWN HIP to remove the chip. If I somehow garnered the courage to cut myself, I would still need to keep my lunch down long enough to dig the transponder out of my flesh. Needless to say, it was completely unnecessary for him to worry that I might activate the chip for fun.

Waking up after only a couple of hours of sleep, I went directly to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. I stared contemplatively at the contents. On the one hand, there was food. On the other hand, the food was dehydrated fruits and meats. Hunger won out, and I grabbed several bags at random. I munched on dehydrated hen strips, sugary apricot slices, and banana pieces as I explored the space that I would now call home.

I hadn’t taken stock of the small closet in the main room the night before, but there I discovered a handful of plain cotton dresses. They were fashioned in the nondescript style that was common in Las Vegas since The Coalition’s takeover. The floor of the closet held three pairs of identical leather sandals, very similar to the ones that I wore around Headquarters. Unlike Penny, clothes held very little interest to me. The dresses were much like my own everyday wardrobe—boring. Loneliness and longing for Headquarters engulfed me. The sight of the familiar leather sandals comforted me slightly. Running my fingers across the stiff material, I reminded myself that the sooner I completed this mission, the sooner I could go home. Hopefully, I’d find Crane in the process.

After I had my fill of dried foods, I made my way to the shower. It was still pretty early, and I hadn’t gotten much sleep, but I really wanted to get started right away.

For my first venture out, I selected a sleeveless navy dress from the closet, paired with a thin, brown leather belt and brown leather sandals. I piled my curls on top of my head in a loose bun and popped in the facial-recognition eyeball lenses. I stared at myself in the small mirror over the sink in the bathroom. The lenses masked the purple of my eyes, making them appear to be murky brown, or “normal”.

I laughed at my reflection. I couldn’t count the number of times that I’d wished I didn’t bear such an obvious Talent mark. Now, as I saw myself looking “normal,” I realized that my purple eyes were just as much a part of my identity as my Mental Manipulation skills. Even though I still looked like myself for the most part, I felt completely different.

I packed a small bag with the necessary imagers and communication devices and set off toward the Strip. There were several nearby bars that Ian Crane’s men frequented, but it was too early for that. I decided that I would wander around the city to familiarize myself with my new surroundings.

Uniformed Coalition men littered every corner. I had expected as much, but now that I was actually here, witnessing it firsthand, I realized that I’d vastly underestimated the danger I was facing. My arrogance from the day before vanished. With my facial recognition lenses, I scanned every person bearing The Coalition insignia, hoping to get a hit.

Around dinnertime, I made my way to a pub on the first level of the Bally’s complex. The intel listed the bar as a known hangout for Crane’s men. I hesitated outside the doors, my pulse quickening. Crane might be inside. I’d played this scene in my head countless times over the past seven years, but now that I might actually come face-to-face with my parents’ murderer, I was…dammit, I was scared. I was still the little girl in the closet, just a child. The speech that I’d revised in my head numerous times for Crane before I killed him suddenly seemed inadequate. Maybe Henri had been right; maybe this hunt was too much for me.

No, no, I chastised myself. I am strong. I am brave. I can do this. My combat skills might not be as developed as Erik’s, and my analytical abilities might not be as strong as Henri’s, but my talents, my mental abilities, were second to none. I’d learned early on to control my powers; Mac had worked tirelessly to harness my raw power and convert it to controlled energy. I had been chosen for this hunt, not because it coincided with my graduation from school, but because I was the only TOXIC member with a chance of success.

With my inner strength reinstated, I entered the pub; my head held high as the glass doors slid apart. The interior was dark and smelled of beer and stale cigarette smoke. Quickly, I shut down my sense of smell before disgust could show on my face. I forced myself to walk slowly and confidently up to the low bar. I pulled out a wooden stool and carefully perched on the edge. I crossed one leg over the other, allowing my dress to ride up my leg far enough to attract attention, but not far enough to give away the muscles resulting from my daily physical training. I spent so much time trying to blend in that it felt odd to purposely draw attention to myself.

I caught the eye of a young guy sitting at the other end of the bar. He wasn’t overly unfortunate looking, so I gave him the most dazzling smile I could muster. Either he rarely saw girls, or Penny’s flirting lessons were paying off because he returned my smile with one of his own.

My left eye lens scrolled quickly through TOXIC’s facial database. My right lens displayed the man’s bio in barely-distinguishable print. I focused on the feel of the lens in my eye until it brought the words into sharper focus. I found what I was looking for--he was definitely one of Crane’s men.

Buy me a drink, I ordered, not breaking eye contact. He signaled for the bartender without taking his eyes off me, and ordered me a fruity alcohol drink. The bartender wasted no time filling the man’s order.

Bring it to me yourself, I mentally barked, when the bartender set the drink in front of him. Nerves made my commands stronger than I intended, but that probably wasn’t a bad thing. The man slid off the edge of his stool with his drink in one hand and mine in the other, making his way over to me. I kept my smile firmly in place as anxiety twisted my insides.

“You look thirsty,” he quipped, handing me the fruity drink.

“Parched,” I replied, reaching for the glass.

“I’m Kyle,” he introduced himself. Up close, I noticed how young he was; Kyle couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than me. His blonde hair was in need of a good shampooing, and his clothes were slightly rumpled, but his amber eyes were friendly and inviting.

“Anna.” I offered my free hand, and he took it delicately in his. I swallowed the urge to flinch and withdraw from his touch. Instead, I plastered a smile on my face.

“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked shyly.

“Be my guest,” I squeaked, all traces of my earlier composure gone. Sure, I was still confident in my ability to control him. Now, I just wasn’t sure that I wanted to.

Kyle climbed onto the stool next to me. I pulled my dress down, covering the leg that I’d exposed in hopes of attracting attention. I wasn’t sure that I could mentally handle more than one of Crane’s men.

Kyle and I chatted easily over dinner and several more drinks. I used my Talents to convince him that he needed to frequent the restroom, giving me opportunities to pour my drinks out on the grimy floor. I tried my best to act drunk, but I wasn’t really sure that it mattered since Kyle was actually drunk.

Several of Kyle’s associates—also Crane’s men—stopped by to introduce themselves to me. I did my best to appear to be a young, drunk girl that was new to the city. I chanced peeking in to several of their minds to confirm they were buying my act; none were overly suspicious.

Offer to walk me home, I demanded as the night wound down.

“Can I walk you home?” Kyle slurred.

“Thanks, I’d like that,” I trilled in my best drunk-girl voice. Kyle shot me a genuine smile, and I almost felt guilty. He paid our bill and stumbled off his stool, offering me his arm. I gritted my teeth and looped my arm underneath his. Flirting with him was bad enough; touching him was almost unbearably. We walked toward the exit of the pub in a cacophony of catcalls from his cohorts. I resisted the urge to turn around and attack.

My apartment was several blocks away. Kyle rambled drunkenly the entire walk.

Ask to see me tomorrow, I ordered when we reached the street-level door to my apartment. I doubted that any of Crane’s men were watching, but I didn’t want to make any mistakes.

“Anna, I would love to see you tomorrow,” Kyle stated.

“I’d like that, too,” I smiled back at him. He leaned in as if to kiss me, and I recoiled, waves of disgust washing over me. He drew back, shocked at my refusal.

Realizing my mistake, I went with the first thought that popped into my head. I envisioned kissing Erik. I summoned the feelings that his lips on mine evoked, and then projected those feelings toward Kyle. The sides of his mouth curled into a dopey grin, and his amber eyes had a faraway look. His body gave a silent shudder as a small moan escaped his lips. I really hoped I didn’t actually look like that when Erik kissed me.

“That was awesome,” he muttered, brushing his fingertips across his bottom lip.

“I thought so, too,” I replied quietly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow? Seven o’clock at the pub?” he asked, without prompting.

“Sure,” I whispered.

“’Night.” He stood there a moment longer. I needed him to leave. I’d been biting back tears since I’d conjured up the mental image of kissing Erik.

Leave, I finally ordered, when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to on his own. With that, he stumbled down the street without looking back. I hurried up the stairs to my apartment, mentally pushing open the door to my unit and rushing through. I ran straight for the bedroom, slamming the front door behind me as I went.