Subject 23 strode down the hallways like a caged panther, stalking the shadows, watching the world shift and twist in the darkness as he moved through the darkened Tower. This was higher in the Levels than he’d ever been, residences and businesses associated with the richer residents and their needs. His arm throbbed, where Arriques’s bullet grazed his deltoid, and the drying blood was starting to crackle painfully whenever he moved that shoulder. He was sure that the damage was superficial, but it kept opening back up with every wrong move of his arm.
The gunshot had caught him by surprise, it was true. 23 thought for sure the guard was dead when he found the gun leveled at him. It had been a low-tech, subsonic round, and he had instinctively deflected it from his chest, but the arm was becoming a problem. He needed stitches, bandages, something. His energy reserves were pitifully low and the blood loss was not helping.
Pausing at an intersection, he saw the red cross of a clinic pointing southwest, towards the light well in the center of the Tower. “Finally,” he growled through clenched teeth. Adrenaline will only get you so far before the floor falls out from beneath you, leaving you shaking with post-combat jitters. He could recall the theory well enough, not that it was helping him at the moment; post-traumatic sympathetic nervous system discharge occurring due to states of intense tension and danger, ‘fight or flight’ response. He glanced at his hand, watching it twitch and shake, his hand stained pink, the blood of the murder poorly cleaned against his pant leg. He caught sight of himself in a reflective panel that would normally broadcast advertisements, dead due to the lack of power.
Tall, wiry, shaved bald in keeping with male Children, forehead already creased with wrinkles, downturned eyes, dark eyebrows, frown lines, strong jaw. His blue eyes were wide, pupils constricted despite the dark, teeth nearly chattering. “Lookit the state of ya,” he sneered at his reflection, gnashing his teeth at the faint image. “A little blood and your shivering like a cold wretch in the Wildlands.”
The image mocked him, repeating his words at him, and he hated it, hated himself, and yet he knew it wasn’t him. Not really. He knew, knew, he was one of the strongest telekinetics in a generation. He could feel the raw, psychic power flowing from him, around him, sensing the air, testing the nearest ferrous metals, like magnetic field lines spreading out from his head and feet. This is what it felt like to be a god.
A loose piece of metal, possibly dropped by an evacuee, flicked just past his ear and punctured the ad screen, fracturing his reflection into thousands of pieces. He had felt the coin on the floor instinctively, had picked it up without thought, and had flung it at near sonic speeds, all without clear, conscious direction. He stepped back in shock, as if someone else had shot at him, before realizing he’d done it. Then he smirked, reaching forward for the shard of metal, holding it up to the light. It was a medallion, about the size of a large coin, though thicker and more ornamental than coinage, one side stamped with a skull and crossbones, the other side a beautiful woman. A gambler’s token, one flipped to settle disputes or make a decision. A relic of the past, one still popular among the population, even within the Tower. He turned the thick steel over and over in his palm, considering it, feeling its weight, before slipping it into a pocket.
The clinic was not far down the corridor, likely taking up most of this Level’s space. The door had a dark sign, though the lettering was painted on, so still visible. “Office of Dr Interico”. These little clinics acted as small hospitals, hubs of care that could be used to treat minor conditions, or triage and transfer over to the bigger facilities on the lower flowers. 23 stopped in front of the door, staring at the locked steel doors. Briefly, he considered ripping the door out of the wall, but knew he had nowhere near enough energy to do such a thing. The feeling of hunger and exhaustion was simply too much. Looking down, however, he saw the faintest sliver of light peeking from beneath the improperly closed door. Power was still on. Was someone still here? Hesitating, he knocked at the door with three hard strikes of his palm.
Nothing for a moment, then the light beneath the door darkened as someone on the other side moved in front of the door. “Hello?” came a muffled voice, “Who’s there?”
23 barely hesitated before the lie came tumbling out of him. “Hey, uh, I’m one of the residents. I got hurt and missed the evacuation.” He let a little of the pain into his voice, though it galled him to let any weakness show at all, even to a disembodied voice on the other side of the door. “Please, I’m bleeding.”
A moment or two passed before the door slid open half way up, forcing him to stoop a bit as he ducked inside. There, a man in his early forties stood dressed in a simple button shirt and slacks, a stethoscope slung over his shoulders. He looked haggard and his eyes were slightly bloodshot, as if he’d just been woken from sleep. “Who’re you?” came the doctor’s curt reply. “You missed evac?”
“I’m Jonquil,” said 23, standing at full height and looking around, his eyes and telekinesis absorbing the scene, though with far different sets of information. “I’m a technician. Was, uh, inside the walls, fixing some frayed cabling. Fell, cut my shoulder, hit my head, and by the time I felt good enough to move, the lower Levels were locked.” The clinic was sterile, smelling of rubbing alcohol, white walls with posters espousing workplace safety, biohazard containers, radiology machines, and a few beds with curtains drawn between them. In the last bed of the clinic, just the foot of bed peeking from behind the curtain, showed a sheet covered form, and there was the faint hiss and groan of a ventilator, the faint, ticking beep of a heart monitor. His telekinesis let him know there was a lot of loose ferrous metal in the room.
The doctor watched him suspiciously from behind horn-rimmed glasses, but his hands were in his pockets and he did not seem hostile. “ID?”
“Dropped it,” said 23, shrugging his shoulders with a forced sheepish grin. He’d always been good at lying. Always found it easy. If the other person was foolish enough to believe him, then he had no qualms deceiving fools. Little insects. Stupid, powerless. Stooges. His train of thought was starting to leave the station, so he rubbed his shoulder and winced, reminding himself why he was here. “It was dark, I was in a hurry, and in a lot of pain. Still am. You’re Dr Interico? Stayed behind to watch your patient?”
“Mmm,” said the physician in way of an answer, walking towards an exam table. “Couldn’t move her fast enough. Got a special exemption. It’s just an evacuation exercise, anyway. Not like we’re actually under attack.” He brought a steel gray eye to bear on 23. “Right, Mr Jonquil?”
23 felt a little thrill of anxiety pulse down his spine, but gave a little shake of his head. “Not that I know of?” He tried a disarming smile, and the Doctor seemed to accept it.
“Well, if you’d seen missiles slamming into the plasma shield while you were walking around in the hallways, you’d know. Sit down, shirt off.” The physician moved towards a glass cabinet, and began to collect syringes, scalpels, stitching supplies, small glass vials.
The black coverall that Children were required to wear was spattered in blood, and torn at the shoulder, but it was a bit hard to tell as the blood had dried and lost its sheen. 23 hoped the physician thought it was from his shoulder. Stripping to the waist, he sat obediently on the stretcher and watched the doctor carefully. “Yeah, um, no missiles or nothing. Just a whole lot of dark corridors. Pretty noble of you to stay back, even though there was a full on evac order.”
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Dr Interico filled a syringe first with one vial, then another. “Noble, sure.” There was frustration in his voice. “I guess. Enough to leave me here, sleep deprived, dealing with technicians that can’t stay on their feet,” he grunted sardonically. “Hold still, this is a numbing agent.” He swiped alcohol above and below the torn flesh, before jabbing the needle in several times on the periphery of the wound, administering small doses of the drug at different points. “Jonquil, huh? Weird name. Parents were into horticulture?”
23 felt the effect of the lidocaine nearly immediately. The pain in his shoulder began to ease, at least at the superficial level. “Hm? Horticulture?” The doctor’s tone and comments spoke of derision, and he was struggling not to let his anger flare. This little insect thought he could speak to him in this manner? His mind began to race, flickering images of violence and blood, insults and imprecations, insolence melting to terror, horror. Struggling with the need to keep a level head, he seethed, and barely felt the hooked stitching needle slide into his skin.
“Yes, horticulture,” said the physician, over-accentuating the word, as if teaching a child. “Jonquil. It’s a type of flower. Strange name to give a kid. All I’m saying.” His fingers worked deftly, closing up the ragged flesh in clean, crisp movements.
The little piece of information broke through the line of murderous rage, and he furrowed his brow. “A flower?” Jonquil, it was his ‘name’, given to him by…A memory seemed to surface briefly, of warm sunlight through massive glass windows, a room full of flowers, a smiling girl placing a bright yellow flower into his hands, giggling and smiling shyly, her fractal eyes shining in the sun’s golden hour. “Yeah, I guess they…liked flowers.” His memory and his thoughts stuttered, and seemed to swim for a moment. He blinked. Hm.
“Right,” grunted the physician. “Funny, though.” He trailed off as he snipped some gauze, wrapping it around 23’s shoulder. “Didn’t think Children had names. Or parents, really?”
That anxiety he’d felt before resurged, as well as fury, but again, found his thoughts stuttering, the world growing slightly fuzzy. The world felt as if it were melting, long dribbling strings of time flowing like molten glass around him. “What?” He felt his voice slurring, his vision swimming. From a distance, he could hear the Doctor’s voice.
“A bit of ziprasidone, that’ll cloud up the psionics a bit, make you lethargic.” His face swam into view. “I’m not a moron, Child. Shaved heads are only found among the Children; now Tower citizen would be caught dead shaving their heads. The coveralls are standard issue to all Moloch Family property. You must have taken the opportunity to escape while the power was out. Not sure what you’re doing on the upper Levels though.” The voice was droning, and the doctor’s expression smug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll strap you down for now, call this all in, and when the evac exercise is over with, well…back to the Pens, hm?” A low, roiling chuckle that rippled and resounded, growing, flexing, shaking, in 23’s altered state.
No. No! Not like this. This flea, this pest, this insignificant rodent dared to try and restrain him? The anger surged through the drug, though the world grew fuzzier, harder to see. His heart rate began to spike despite the lethargy, and he felt the flare of raw power surging through him like a torrential wave. It smashed against the fading reality, forcing just a bit more clarity. Behind the doctor, scalpels, syringes, metal cabinet handles, canisters and tools, all began to surge and burst through cabinet doors, glass panels, off tables and trays, swirling, a cacophony of chittering steel, clattering and tinkling against each other. With his last moments of consciousness, Jonquil let the heavy influx of psionic-powered steel slam into the screaming doctor as hard and as fast as he could allow. A clattering wave of metal detritus, like a swarm of metallic birds in flight, swarmed into the human in an instant. The last thing he heard was a harsh, crushing thud, and then the blackness took him.
---
That golden room full of flowers again.
The giggling of a child. A Child.
Jonquil held the flower in his hand, a...daffodil. His vision blurred with tears as he looked at it, wetting his face. He’d been weeping and his eyes stung.
“You like it? The flower?” The voice was sweet, young, piping. The girl before him, five or six years old, stood pigeon-toed, hands behind her back, little black dress clean and pressed. “Don’t let the big Kids push you around, okay?” Her little face frowned, those fractal eyes, her voice echoing in such a strange, dream-like way. All other features of the room, the distant laughter and conversation of young children, all indistinct and low, like roaring in the ears.
“They wanted m-my rations,” he said, his voice stuttering in the fashion of crying children. He hated that stutter. He loved that girl. “Th-thanks for sticking up for me.” He hiccupped gently, scrubbing at his eyes, grubby hand clutching the stem of the daffodil.
“Sure!” she said brightly, her strange eyes probing at him, discovering him. She felt his pain and had responded. He was sure she felt it.
And he knew, then, that he needed her more than anything else in the world. His own possession, his own person, all for him. And he’d die or kill before anyone took her away.
---
The world swam in his vision as Jonquil opened his eyes. He’d decided he won’t carry his number as a name any longer, somewhere in between that dream and this present. “Gngh…” he groaned raggedly as he pushed himself up from where he’d collapsed on the stretched, drool trailing behind him, his neck stiff from an awkward position while out. The clinic was nearly silent, except for the beeping of the monitor, the gentle whooshing of the ventilator. A light was flickering, and glancing at it, he saw a large shard of metal had pierced the overhead lighting. Blinking, he slowly came back to himself, his tongue dry, his eyes crusted. How long had he been out? Hours, likely.
A steady dripping sound slowly caught his attention, and he glanced at the cabinets, where he thought a vial of something had been tipped. That’s when he noticed the pool of blood. Mostly congealed, it spread across the slick floor almost to his stretcher. His eyes followed it to the wall, then…up the wall.
Dr Interico hung from the wall, pinned by thousands of pieces of metal debris, slivers of steel and iron shredded by a storm of psionic energy. His arms were splayed to the side, and his head lolled downward, as if crucified. His clothing had been nearly stripped from his pale body, and a thousand punctures dribbled blood, though it seemed mostly to have tapered off. There was no sign of life in the now-pale corpse.
With an impassive stare, Jonquil studied the man. “I would’ve let you live,” he whispered to the dead man. “Despite your little snide comments. Despite your complicit agreement to the Children’s subjugation.” He felt a lightness in his soul as he spoke. After all, he'd won. “But I suppose the only good Sapiens is a dead one.” That initial flare of guilt and horror that he’d felt with Arriques was now replaced, now dulled. After all, these revolting little pests deserved the boot that stepped on them. “You can’t catch a god, though,” he said with a wry laugh, standing from the stretcher, flexing his arm. It felt good, very good, still numb from the lidocaine. “The god catches you, hm?” He grinned, then stumbled through the clinic blearily, as if drunk, finding the physicians little fridge, consuming whatever water and snacks he could find there. Not nearly enough, but it would have to do.
Striding towards the sounds of the ventilator, chewing on a protein bar, he paused as he pulled back the curtain. The patient in the bed was staring at him in wide eyed fear, a tube inserted down her throat. An older woman lay there awake and panicking, but apparently unable to move much but her eyes, though he saw her fingers flexing and unflexing. He swallowed his mouthful before sniffing and making a face. “Stinks,” he grunted, waving his hand in front of his face dramatically. “You reek, lady.”
Her face contorted in fear and agony, and tears leaked down her face. The ventilator beeped in protest as she tried to force air around the tube, probably to scream.
“Oh, calm down, you’re not exactly of consequence. Though, you’ll probably die if someone doesn’t manage your tubes and liquids, right?” He glanced at the feeding tube, the ventilator, and shrugged, settling his hands into his pockets. His fingers grasped around the gambler’s medallion and he turned it over and over before pulling out. “Quick death or slow death, ma’am?” The grin that slowly spread across his face could only be described as manic, deranged, sadistic. He flicked the coin, and he kept it spinning in the air with a brush of psionic energy. Finally, he grabbed it, and opened his fist.
“Ooooh, harsh luck, ma’am. Slow it is.”
And with that, he left the clinic as the woman’s ventilator blared alarms.