The trip to the visitor's room is a blur of cells, hallways, and barred windows. Emotions of all sorts rack Waylon's body, but they pale against that of anger and guilt. Both wrestle inside his chest. Fire and ice, hot and cold, sweltering and chilling. Ahead of him — through a single open door — the visitor's area practically buzzes. Meaningless chatter; nothing like what waits for him at one of a dozen meeting tables within. Sweat beads along his scalp overtop a humming static; an itchiness.

Anger? Guilt? Something else entirely?

He steps through the doorway. Alone, at a table sits a man: sleek hair in a suit equally so. A lawyer. With confirmation of his fears, Waylon's perception shifts. Just like it did at the aquarium. Sitting, waiting, watching from behind his own eyes while his body continues on. Walk; shake the lawyer's hand; sit; listen. Take a packet. Sign each page. Listen for a while longer. Get handed another paper.

Sign it, sit, and listen. Sign the next, wait. Listen.

Listen more. Sign. Again and again, paper after paper. Until the lawyer stands up and stuffs each of Waylon's binding autographs into a leather briefcase. Real leather.

How much did the tax on that cost?

The thought is offhand. A weak thrash of the little control he has. Though, it doesn't stop there. Memories of a movie flash by: humans crammed into a single car at the back of a train, forced to survive by eating what and who they could.

That's where Waylon would be. At the back of that train.

Meanwhile, this lawyer would dine on caviar and drink his fill. Champagne, syrupy soda, crystal clear water.

He'd be complicit. Hell, he is complicit. Just like Barclay and the other one. Not as directly as them, but most certainly complicit. Varying degrees. Somewhere on a spectrum. Anger flares in Waylon's chest, yanking him back to the forefront of his mind — back in control. He slams both handcuffed fists onto the table.

None of that matters. Licensees and lawyers: they both get paid to deal with people like me. People who have been driven to the brink, who can only afford to make rash decisions.

A guard pulls Waylon to his feet and shoves. After a short stumble, Waylon marches on where the guard pushes. Back the way he came; back to his cell.

Something's not right in his gut — a twinge. Should I be angry at them?

He dismisses the thought with a shake of his head and grits his teeth. Why shouldn't I be? They don't care — about me, about her. As long as they can ignore my humanity, they can stay comfortable. All they have to do is their job. Lock me in here for twenty years, forget about me. Let me writhe in my helplessness while Gina wastes— no. While she wasted away.

The guard shoves him down the final hallway to his cell; Waylon doesn't stumble this time.

Raucous chatter floods out of every cell they pass — follows them. Bouncing endlessly off brick walls, disparate voices coalesce into an unbearable drone. It drives a nail into Waylon's temple. He stops to the side of his cell's door and massages at the pain. "Come on. Let me in."

He didn't bother to notice until now, but this is the same guard that took him to the visitor's room. The same one that talked to Ronan earlier: dead eyes, heavy, balding.

What was his name? Lieutenant Franco?

Franco struggles to detach a set of keys from his belt. "Try giving me another order. See what happens."

The threat isn't the lieutenant's first and it won't be his last. Meaningless posturing — as long as Waylon plays along with his fragile ego. So Waylon does. He shuts up and he waits.

Key ring jingling in hand, a grin splits Franco's face. He doesn't attempt to sort out the right key on the cluttered loop: he tries them one by one in the lock, smug grin growing by the second.

Why do they always have to be so petty?

A while later, the lock clinks and Franco swings the door open. Waylon shambles past. Ronan is cross-legged atop his bunk, again. Counting in whispers.

Already?

Routine is one Ronan's more likeable qualities. Sure, the man likes new things, but he likes those scheduled. Same with his usual activities: workouts, meditation, sleeping. All on a strict schedule.

Annoyance ties a knot in Waylon's mind; the fact that he knows Ronan this well... but that takes a back seat to another thought. No way I was out for two hours. Was I?

Closer, Ronan's voice cuts through the noise of their neighbors. "— seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty." He opens his eyes and catapults himself to the floor, landing with bent knees. Well-toned calf muscles bulge against the legs of his uniform — a classic orange jumpsuit. Rising to nearly eye-level, he pats Waylon on the shoulder. "Waylon! Welcome back! How'd it go?"

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Waylon tries to shove past him, but the man is solid as a rock. "Guh — just let me past. I want to lie down."

The cell door creaks behind him, closing. Ronan whispers into his ear. "Actually, might want to wait on that. I'm going to do something rash. Albert will want you to make the most of it." He claps Waylon on the back and slips past, pace hurried. "Franco! Did you happen to—"

A drop each of confusion and fear dilutes Waylon's anger; he twists his head after Ronan. "Wait, what do you—"

Before the door can latch, Ronan barrels his body into it. Clang. The door bursts outward and catches Lieutenant Franco's arm. Thrown backwards, Franco flails through the air, searching for purchase by hand or foot.

Waylon stares at the nightmare unfolding before him. What— what the hell is he doing? What does Albert expect me to do?

Happening into steady footing, the guard fumbles at his belt; his gun holster. "No, no. Back up! Stay right—"

Ronan punches his throat.

Franco's words stop instantly in favor of desperate wheezing and gurgles. Abandoning his gun, he scrabbles fingers against his throat.

Ronan hooks a hand around Franco's head. "Sorry to do this to you, lad."

Eyes wide and watering, Franco splutters. "Nuh, nuh! Nu—"

Ronan slams him face-first into a brick wall and he crumples to the ground. Silent.

Waylon springs toward the doorway and catches himself on the surrounding bars. "Why?"

"Because I'm the backup plan! Albert wouldn't just let you rot in here." Ronan says. He leans over, unbuttons the strap holding Franco's pistol in its holster, and slides it free — far too casually to be his first time. "You're angry, right? Let's do something about it."

"Do what? Escape guns blazing? Are you out of your mind?"

Ronan pulls back the pistol's slide enough to reveal a gold-cased bullet. Letting the slide snap shut, he wrenches the keys out of their cell door's lock. "Nothing of the sort. Listen, we don't have time to chat. I'll start a wee bit of a riot to draw attention, you make a hole in our wall — preferably the one facing outside — and jump on through. From there, you'll figure it out. Take the sewer, maybe."

"So you do all this and you're not planning on coming with me? Just throwing me to whatever wolves are out there?"

"Nah, don't worry. I've got my own way out. And you're selling yourself short: you'll get on on your own just fine. Now, if you don't mind—" Ronan starts toward another cell, jingling his new set of keys. "— I'll get this riot started proper."

Waylon hovers there, thoughts setting terror firm in his gut. If Albert sent Ronan to break me out, why did they wait until Gina—

Her name teases the anger roiling beneath his fear. He wrings his grip against prison bars, knuckles white. It doesn't matter why. If Albert wants to play that way, I'll break out and strangle them.

Waylon whirls around and sprints to the outside-facing wall. From next door, Ronan's spiel rings out. "Hey. Hey! You're the one with the fire thing, right? What would you say to busting out and—"

It's noise now. Unimportant. Waylon drops to the floor and starts exhaling against the bricks. Though not glass, his breath leaves behind a whiteish film upon their surface. What would resemble condensation on glass or metal looks like more like dusted chalk.

Clink. A cell door unlocking. Rubber soles scrape across concrete: their neighbors passing into the hallway.

"Here, cut this ring and we'll split up to unlock the others." Ronan says.

One breath isn't going to be enough. Waylon sucks in more air and exhales: once, twice, three times until his head swims. He leans over, resting his head upon the wall with his arm as a cushion. A twinge picks at his mind amid the swirling.

Isn't this too easy? Shouldn't prisons be better prepared for powers?

The twinge doesn't last. After all, when's the last time there was any kind of reform? Three hundred years ago? To be expected, I guess.

More locks clink and doors screech open. More and more. Surely not much time until things kick off. So, despite his still swirling head, Waylon rolls up a sleeve and scrubs his forearm over the brick.

Far off down the hallway — beyond the murmurs of would-be rioters — a guard yells. "Shit! Pull the alarm! Pull it now!" Hushed voices turn boisterous, shuffling feet turn stampeding, and chaos begins. Orange jumpsuits rush past in droves. Ten, twenty, thirty. The whole prison block.

Waylon's stomach is in knots: nerves, fear, uncertainty. Still, he scrubs at his patch of chalky, breath-coated brick.

A pinprick of afternoon sunlight pierces through.

Almost there.

Patch half gone, sirens sound. Like kazoos mixed with the scratch of a guitar string. Somehow it's familiar. Waylon tugs on that hint of recognition, desperate to distract his raging nerves. Star Wars? Echo Base's alarm in The Empire Strikes Back.

Amid the chaos behind him, Ronan's voice cuts through. "What are you still doing here, lad? Hurry up and—"

A series of gunshots blot out reality. Vision and hearing, gone in an instant. There are no thoughts in Waylon's head. Only a garbled firing of neurons with no meaning beyond surprise.

Though, he feels no pain.

Isn't that normal for people who've been shot? Waylon braces, waits, but pain never comes. Slowly, his forces his eyelids to crack open. Sunlight pours through.

I'm fine? Chest, sides, legs. Waylon searches over each body part with his hands. No bullet holes.

Behind him, something thuds.

Waylon knows what true horror feels like. What it means to have reality yanked from underneath him. This is that. Falling within his own body; flailing past his heart and his stomach. He lands in a jolt and swallows, terrified of what he'll find if he turns around. Still, he does.

Ronan lies near the entrance to their cell. Less of him; none of him. Motionless. Dead. Despite three holes, there's no blood. There's nothing that Waylon would expect, actually. Blood, gore: absent. A substance spills out his wounds — brown, earthy. Like soil.

From it, a mushroom sprouts: golden-yellow with a trumpet-shaped cap. Waylon blinks and one turns to four; then ten. They keep sprouting, only stopping at two dozen.

What?

In the distance, prisoners clash with guards and another gunshot rocks Waylon's senses.

There isn't time for any of this. Ears ringing, he jerks his head between Ronan's body and the hole streaming sunlight. Do I— what do I do?

Possibilities flash through his mind. What Albert might do to him, what the guards might do if they catch him, what the fuck that bunch of mushrooms might mean. Waylon doesn't know any of it.

Afraid of everyone, he plunges into the sunlight and tears off across dirt, grass, and pavement.