Watch Me, page 15
“Come on,” Kenji groans. “You’ve got to let this go. That was two years ago—”
“Look,” I say desperately. “I didn’t think Rosabelle would end up being so important. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and at the time I was a little distracted by what I thought were much bigger issues—”
“I don’t care.” Warner returns his eyes to me. “You’re going to make up for it. I want to know her family history. I want to know what she’s capable of. I want to know about those bruises on her body and the scar inside her wrist. I want to know more about her sister. And obviously I want to know what she’s really doing here. We’re trying to slow down their plans, James. What we need is time. Time, and enough information to prepare a counterattack.”
“Fine,” I sigh, crossing my arms. “I hate it, but fine. When do I have to start?”
“Tomorrow,” Kenji says, throwing a piece of popcorn at my head. “Obviously.”
Warner nods. “Ten a.m.”
“Fine,” I say again.
“One last thing, James.”
I glare at the ceiling. “What?”
“You are not to put a hand on her unless it’s to kill her. Do you understand?”
My head snaps forward. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. Don’t touch her. Ever. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Juliette and Kenji are looking at me with renewed interest, exchanging glances.
“Oh shit, twist,” Kenji whispers loudly.
He rips open a familiar bag of jelly beans, offers the bag to Juliette, and then dumps a fistful of beans into his own mouth. Chewing, he says, “This might be better than movie night.”
My jaw clenches. “What makes you think I’m going to touch her?”
“I don’t think you have plans to,” Warner says. “I’m only advising you not to do it when, inevitably, you want to.”
“I just gasped,” says Kenji, not gasping.
“Me too,” says Juliette, also not gasping.
“This is genuinely insulting,” I say to Warner. “You think I don’t know how to handle myself? I’m twenty-one years old. You were two years younger than me when you led a fucking revolution—”
“Language!” Kenji says gleefully, grinning as he rips open a bag of potato chips.
“—and everyone around here still treats me like I’m a child. I’m not a child. Maybe you didn’t notice, but I grew up a long time ago. Maybe it’s time you stopped treating me like I don’t know how to wipe my own ass—”
“You didn’t grow up the way we did,” Warner says, deathly calm. “Your generation has been coddled. Untested. You didn’t have to grow up as fast as we did—”
“Shouldn’t have said that,” Kenji says under his breath.
“Are you joking?” I’m on my feet now. Livid. “I was six years old when I watched my friends get dragged into back alleys to have their organs ripped out. You know what’ll fuck you up? Watching adults terrorize children over and over again. You think I didn’t grow up as fast as you did? Who do you think buried the bodies? You think anyone cared to organize funerals for street kids? I was seven the first time I fired a gun. Seven the first time I killed someone. You have no idea what kind of shit I’ve seen—”
“Aaaand he shouldn’t have said that,” Kenji mutters.
“Would you like an award for your troubles?” Warner says, rounding on me. “You think you’re the only one who had to watch people die? You think you’re the only one tainted by misery? What you’ve suffered is tragic, but it doesn’t come close to the levels of darkness we’ve had to endure—”
“Sweetheart,” Juliette says softly, and Warner immediately stills, his body tensing. “This isn’t the kind of competition any of us wants to win.”
Warner lowers his head, steadies his breath. “You’re going to be on your own,” he says, turning to face the wall. “You’ll be alone with her for long stretches of time. Only occasional surveillance, as promised. I need to be able to trust you.”
“Of course you can trust me,” I say angrily. “What kind of a bullshit thing is that to say?”
“James,” he says, a warning in his voice. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“She’s, like, really, really beautiful,” Kenji explains to Juliette in an undertone. He shoves some chips into his mouth. “James is very into her”—he crunches—“even though she killed him, and later threw up on him.”
Now Juliette does gasp. “Do I get to meet her?”
“No,” everyone shouts at the same time.
Juliette shrinks back, surprised.
“I’m sorry,” Warner says instantly. He blanches. “Forgive me, love. I didn’t mean to shout at you.”
She softens, beaming at him like he’s some kind of baby animal. Sometimes I think she sees Warner in a way literally no one else does. She seems to think he has no thorns at all.
“Okay, for real, though.” Kenji turns to look at her. “Why would we introduce you to the mercenary who definitely wants to kill you? None of us are going to meet her. She gets no access to any of us. That’s part of the reason why we decided Genius over here”—he nods at me—“needs to be the one to handle this mess.”
I exhale angrily. “Can we wrap this up, please? And for clarity, I am not into her, and I am fully capable of doing my job. Just because I think she might be a complex human being doesn’t mean I’m into her.”
Warner shoots me a look.
“What?” I say. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he says darkly. “Then this won’t be a problem for you at all.”
JAMES
CHAPTER 25
I’m breathing hard when I hit the button for the elevator, sweat slick down my chest, my shirt sticking to skin. I take a pull on my water bottle and mop my face with a towel. I’m still catching my breath. The gym is never quieter than it is before dawn—though you never can tell when you’re down here. Our HQ was constructed entirely underground.
The idea was heavily inspired by Omega Point, obviously. Point was the first underground headquarters, and Castle, the now-retired leader of the original resistance group, helped us transform his vision into a modern masterpiece. It took several years to meticulously build it out, but as far as I’m concerned, this is Winston and Alia’s greatest accomplishment. It’s like a small city down here, heavily fortified, extremely secure. Bonus: it has state-of-the-art fitness facilities, and they’re almost always empty. No one seems as excited about hitting the gym as me and Warner.
I tap the button again, sweat snaking down my collarbone.
Warner started training me not long after I moved in with him, and I loved it immediately. Something about the constant dopamine hits changed my brain chemistry. Usually he’s here to make me feel bad about my reps, but he wasn’t around this morning. It makes me wonder if everything is okay with Juliette.
The elevator finally dings, and I step inside.
I have to place my hand on the scanner in order to access my floor, but otherwise I make an effort not to lean on anything as the carriage ascends, containing my sweaty self until I can get in the shower. I glance at my watch, reminded in yet another small moment, of my brief stint on the Ark. They took all my things—including the watch off my wrist— and that one cost me a lot. The one I’m wearing now is less suitable for the gym and much simpler overall: traditional hour and minute hands, single complication, no tech. Not even a battery. You have to wear it so that it winds itself, otherwise the clock stops.
I like it. I like not being tethered, constantly, to the mainframe.
I watch the floors tick by on the monitor.
The Reestablishment was so obsessed with the future—so obsessed with constantly advancing technology in terrifying ways—that I think it gave our generation a complex. After the revolution, we established and subsidized programs to encourage people to learn practical trades. It was Warner’s idea. He argued that we had to relearn self-sufficiency as a nation; bring back manufacturing and innovation so that we’d never be so reliant on technology that we’d abandon the building blocks of life. A lot of the kids I used to know are real, bona fide farmers now.
We’re still pretty high tech, though.
The elevator stops at a lower floor, the open doors illuminating a gleaming, sparking laboratory just beyond, where people in technical coats are already bustling across the floor. An older man gets on the elevator, his long black dreads reminding me of a younger Castle. I’ve seen this guy several times around here, especially during my early morning gym sessions. His name tag reads: Jeff.
I shake my head, fighting a private laugh as I say good morning. There’s an overabundance of Jeffs in my life.
Jeff gets off on yet another floor—the engineering lab.
Once he’s gone the elevator slows down, requiring fresh verification. I place my sweaty hand on the biometric scanner again, and then, as we climb even higher, my retinas are scanned before I’ve cleared security altogether. After that we ascend quickly; so fast, in fact, that I’m a little nauseous by the time we come to a halt at the top floor.
The doors ping, opening directly into our living room.
“Hey,” I say, lifting a hand. I step out of the sleek, modern elevator and onto the hardwood floor of our modest, old-world home. Shafts of morning light reach through the windows, illuminating the rooms in the rising dawn. Golden rays gild the edges of fixtures and furniture. A squirrel swishes its tail from the branch of the huge live oak tree in the front yard, beyond which the sounds of life awaken in the street. There’s the distant murmur of voices; the whoosh of a passing car. The birds are loud.
Warner, of course, is quiet.
He’s fully dressed at seven in the morning, sitting at the breakfast table in black slacks and a gray knit sweater, composed even at rest. I thought he was impressive at twenty; at thirty years old he radiates the kind of quiet, effortless power I find aspirational. Even now he looks anointed, his golden hair suffused with fresh sunlight. I know without a doubt that he’s been up since five. Maybe earlier. I see him straight across our small, open-plan house, drinking a cup of coffee. I can smell it from here: black, very black. No cream, no sugar.
Just battery acid.
I kick off my sneakers, placing them on the designated shoe rack before padding toward the kitchen in my socks.
Warner puts down his cup, then the tablet he’d been reading. As I approach, I catch sight of the massive stack of files beside him.
“You should shower,” he says by way of hello.
“No shit,” I say, dropping my gym bag on the kitchen floor. I place my water bottle by the sink and start prepping a protein shake. “Why weren’t you in the gym this morning?”
“Juliette needed me.”
I freeze, my hand on the cabinet door. “She okay?”
“She’s okay,” he says quietly, picking up his coffee cup. “You want to talk about it?”
He hesitates, the mug inches from his mouth, and just looks at me.
“No, that’s cool,” I say, grinning as I mix the shake. “You want to write it all down in your diary later. I get it.”
He puts down the mug. “Rosabelle was asking questions about you yesterday.”
This hits me, pow, right in the sternum. I actually need a minute. Finally, I say, “Asking about me how?”
“She asked the girls if you had the same powers. She wanted to know whether you could heal other people in addition to yourself.”
I consider this a moment, then narrow my eyes when I say, “Did she really ask about me? Or are you just messing with me again?”
“Not this time,” he says, sitting back in his chair.
The girls is an affectionate shorthand for Sonya and Sara, the twin healers who oversee our HQ’s medical facilities. These days they spend most of their time researching and developing curative technologies, but they started out with Castle years and years ago at Omega Point. I studied under their guidance for a long time; they’re the ones who taught me exactly how to use my power.
“What was she doing with the girls?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“They always oversee the physicals for high-profile transfers.” He says this with a hint of impatience, like I should already know this. “Especially those who’ve entered with injuries.”
“Right,” I say, remembering that I did know this. I turn to stare out the window. A finch jumps up onto the sill and studies me, and I’m reminded of robot-birds. “I’m assuming the girls didn’t answer her questions.”
Warner takes a sip of his coffee, watching me. My heart, traitorous asshole, kicks into high gear. The back of my neck prickles. Damn. It’s a good thing I’m already sweaty.
Honestly, I’ve been trying not to think about Rosabelle.
Every time I look at my watch I’m trying not to think about Rosabelle. I’ve been trying not to replay the horrors of yesterday’s fiasco on a loop, trying not to remember how I managed to make a serial killer cry by feeding her lunch. I broke her, and I don’t even know how I did it. It makes me sick to my stomach.
I know she’s technically a horrible person. I know this. I’ve got the scar on my neck to prove it. But no one breaks down crying trying to eat a piece of chicken unless they’re carrying serious pain. And the fact that I’m going to be alone with her day after day, forced to mine her for information—to break her again—in pursuit of her deepest, darkest secrets, makes me feel even shittier. And then, of course, I feel shitty for feeling shitty, because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter how much she cries. I’m going to do what’s best for my family, for my people.
Fuck The Reestablishment.
“Good,” says Warner, picking up his coffee cup again. “Just checking.”
“Hey,” I say, stunned. “Don’t eavesdrop on my feelings.”
“You smell,” he says, tapping his tablet back to life.
I ignore this and peer over his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of a header that reads Sector 52, A Brief History before he turns the tablet face down.
“So what’s all this?” I ask, nodding to the stack of files beside him. “What are you researching?”
He doesn’t even lift his head when he says, “You haven’t earned the right to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frown. “Wait—are you doing Rosabelle recon?”
“Obviously.” He takes another sip of his coffee.
“And you’re not going to loop me in?”
“You don’t have the necessary security clearance. Now leave me alone.”
“Are you joking?” I go slack. “This is a joke, right? You put me back on her case—I’m supposed to head over to the rehab facility in a few hours—and you’re not even going to prep me?”
Now he looks up, confused. “I left two binders on your desk last night.”
“Oh,” I say, hesitating. “I thought that was, like, optional reading.”
Warner closes his eyes on a controlled sigh, and when he opens his eyes again he looks mutinous. “You didn’t read any of it?”
This is my cue to leave.
I can feel a lecture brewing the way some people can smell rain in the air. “I’m, um— Actually, I was going to go read it right now.”
He shakes his head at me, jaw tensing, then picks up his tablet. “You want me to stop treating you like a child?” he says. “Stop acting like a child.”
“Thanks, big bro,” I say, backing out of the room. “I appreciate the advice. I love you, too.”
“Pick up your gym bag. You’re not an animal.”
I swipe the bag off the ground as I leave the kitchen, pointing my protein shake at him. “I’m so glad we had this heart-to-heart. I’m feeling good about today, too. Loving life. Pumped.”
“Don’t forget to shave,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen. “And do a clean job this time. Use the straight razor like I showed you.”
“Do you have nothing positive to say to me?” I ask, heading for the hall. “Maybe a little encouragement? Maybe something about how great I am, how talented I am, how I’m such a pleasure to have in class—”
“Don’t mess this up today.”
“What’s that?” I cup my hand to my ear. “You think I’m more handsome than you? Smarter than you? Taller than you?”
Warner sits up in his chair, his eyes flashing.
“You’re right,” I say, darting up the stairs. “I crossed a line. Won’t happen again—”
ROSABELLE
CHAPTER 26
“No,” I say.
“Okay. Well, we’re about to conclude our morning session, and so far you’ve shared only your first name with the group. What about your full name? Do you feel ready to share your full name? First, middle, last?”
“No.”
“What about your age? Would you feel comfortable helping us understand how long you’ve been struggling?”
“No.”
“I see. Rosabelle, do you have any I statements you’d like to share before we wrap up? How about an I feel? Can you complete that sentence? How are you feeling today?”
Heat coils inside my chest, brazing my lungs together, unfurling up my throat. This is worse than a high-security prison cell. Worse than physical torture. I’d prefer solitary confinement to this—this—therapy circle—
“That’s all right, you don’t have to share anything today if you’re not ready,” says the group leader, a wiry man who introduced himself to me as “Ian Sanchez, I don’t perform miracles, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
I close my eyes, unclench my fists, exhale steadily.
“It took me a long time to open up, too,” he’s saying now. “We’re in no hurry to force healing.” He keeps saying that. We’re in no hurry to force healing.
Inside, I scream for a full three seconds.
I imagine exploding out of my body, running straight for the wall and then straight through it. I haven’t decided yet whether this is an elaborate set piece, whether I’m a pawn being moved across a chessboard. If the rebels have done this to me on purpose, I have no choice but to acknowledge their skill. If, however—
