JASPER'S SCREAMS WERE nothing more than a breathless moan now, his aura weak in the air. The lights flickered and waned in the corridor with the raging storm that shook the building. His aura tangled with hers, growing thinner by the minute. Her power was gone, suppressed, but they needed her. Needed her blood.
She swallowed dryly and ran her thumb over the spot the cannula had leached into her vein, digging her nail into the puncture hole as the surgical team discussed how to save him. The words washed over her as her ears rang. They were going to find her, find her and use her like cattle. The stench of the Thames hung heavy in the air as she stared at his aura, it crooned to her, tugging at her heart and towards the operating theater but her legs wouldn't move.
The risk of being caught was too high, much too high, and she couldn't sacrifice everything for him. Not when he was the reason she was in this mess to start with. She chewed on her nail and didn't move from the shadows, keeping an eye on the commotion in the operating theater from the ajar door instead.
Think think think!
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
The security team split into two, one half headed for the stairwell beside the helipad doors while the other half secured Jasper to the operating table, binding him down.
Tick-tock.
A nurse turned on the anaesthetic pumps.
Tick-tock.
Answers came first.
She made her move, using the filing cabinets to claw her way to standing. She yanked on the drawers. Desperation raked through her mind. Her footprints would lead them here, the bloody marks on the white tiles a red flag to anyone searching, and as drawer upon drawer produced nothing but dust and fragments of paper she knew she had minutes. Mere minutes, nothing more, until they realised she was loose and not the docile guest they expected her to be.
The storage room was crammed with rows of filing cabinets, each ordered alphabetically. A small desk with a computer on sat at the far end lit by a desk lamp, but no windows, no air vents, only a carbon dioxide input pipe in case of fire. The camera mounted in the far corner stayed powered down as she sifted through the drawers. The ones that hadn't been cleared at the end of the rows only held medical receipts of things like asthma inhalers, immunosuppressants, insulin, and not much else.
She bit back a swear as something banged from the operating theater. Where the hell were they?
They must've removed them, got rid of them and anything that could expose R.B.I.C the second they dumped her and Jasper in the building. She gritted her teeth as he groaned again, voices seeping from the room as thunder shook the floors. Small droplets of blood blotted against her sleeve as the stitches stretched, but she ignored it, listening out for the sound of approaching footsteps instead.
She reached for a drawer labelled J-L as she tried to block out the groans and cries from beyond the room, forcing it to the back of her mind as she got to work. The drawer slid open easily, gliding into her waiting hands as her heart jumped at the sight of all the files crammed within. Prisoner records. Names. Men and women. Reams of paper all shoved together. She pulled out one from the middle and flicked it open, sitting back onto her ankles as she looked at the photo staring back at her.
A woman, in her fifties, her eyes wild but brimmed with tears gazed at the camera. Her jaw was stiff as if she was forcing herself to be silent, suppressing everything inside, letting her eyes speak instead. Eyes that screamed up at her like an animal headed to slaughter. A thick black cross in marker pen stamped over her picture.
Her gaze slid to the detailed stapled to the top of the file on a red slip.
PATIENT 566336 - FEMALE.
JULIE JONES - PARIAH.
DISPOSED.
Dead. Her hands shook as she let the file fall shut, pushing it back into the row. The section on the woman's past blacked out. Bile burned the back of her throat as she reached for the next one.
A man. Another patient number. Disposed.
Disposed.
Disposed.
The next.
A woman. Disposed.
Another.
Disposed.
Each with a black cross and a red slip of paper attached to their files.
Disposed.
She slammed the drawer shut, her hands shaking violently as she lunged for the next one. The drawer sat too stuffed with files, only as she looked down at them slivers of red paper bled between the files. Her throat choked up as she moved onto the next one. Disposed too. Dead. All dead.
Disposed like rubbish.
Hundreds and hundreds of files. The ones they hadn't cleared out yet. People reduced to nothing but numbers and a barcode. Gone and dead like they had never existed to start with. Pariahs, purged from the system. She let the drawer slid back into place as her hand went for her tattoo, rubbing her thumb over the ink as she fought to think clearly. Dr. Pyne had warned her to not go wandering, to obey. This wasn't just a prison, it was far much more than that.
Something caught her eye, higher up. Closer to the computer desk.
A drawer labelled S-V.
Astrid's words rang through her head; her file had been missing. The rest hadn't existed.
Her fingers itched, her gut in a knot.
Don't open it. Don't open it. Don't open it.
Blood rushed in her ears as she stared at it, rising up to slid it free. Her stitches stretched, bleeding heavier now as her sleeve stuck to her skin, her hands trembled too much as she peered into the draw.
Only one file sat within. Left behind.
Saunders.
She scooped it up and moved to the desk, sinking into the seat as she moved the desk lamp to shine down on it. The file fell open in her hands, pages and pages of medical notes. Thick blocks of text blacked out, bits missing, but her gaze darted to the photo pinned to the corner of the file. Her photo. Taken while she was unconscious, her hair scraped back to expose her face properly as someone had laid her out like a specimen on a surgery table. Her skin free of the trauma to come.
Her stomach clenched, her parents names were here too. Her mother's work with the university and with the Institute too. Her father's role in Parliament. Their family photos, snapshots of them outside when she was younger, photos of her. Photos upon photos of her in the street, in shops, in school with her bodyguard lagging behind. Before any of this had happened, back when she was still normal.
The data went on; testing dates that were marked inconclusive, genetics percentages, doctors' comments, blood test results. Everything. Everything tracked and monitored for years like they'd been waiting for her to turn into a disaster.
She turned the page before she seized up and threw it away from her, biting her fist to stop a scream.
A red slip of paper tucked itself into the last page of the file.
PATIENT 43646 - FEMALE.
And then slightly lower, in printed handwriting:
EVANGELINE SAUNDERS - PARIAH.
DISPOSAL PENDING.
She was fucked. Jasper's golden aura squeezed her throat before it released her, the threads retracted from her skin as she rocked in the chair, shaking her head as she fought to think. This couldn't be true, couldn't be. She needed to be slapped stupid until the logical part of her woke up from this nightmare, even if deep down she knew this was it. This was reality, and reality wanted to bite her in the ass as she was being dragged down the rabbit hole.
Thunder split the sky into two. The ceiling trembled as the light strips burst, glass sprayed down on her as she hit the floor. She threw up a hand to shield her eyes as the force lashed out again, the roof tiles quivering as voices erupted from the operating theater. Smoke seeped along the roof as the power cut out, the red emergency lighting kicking in instead. Prison guards and medical staff started to holler as the fire alarm blared.
She slid off the desk and crumpled against it, the handles digging into her back as she stared at the ajar door. She was just as dead as the rest of them. They had her medical records, years and years of photos from her childhood, they had Dr. Pyne and her and Jasper too. This was no ordinary prison, no ordinary government building, and as the papers proved what her gut already knew: that this was a place where the chimneys never stopped burning.
Someone shifted their weight on the corridor as footsteps broke out, people charged for the helipad as the whoomp whoomp of a helicopter landing grew louder. She stiffened, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she peered between the gap in the desk and the floor. Smoke rolled across the ceiling, crimson light pooling in from the corridor as slowly a man's hands stretched in the gap holding a gun aloft.
Move move move.
Their radio crackled, voices yelled over the comms.
". . . fire crews to the roof immediately, over."
"Fire in ward four! And someone get the fucking riot under control before—"
"Incoming helicopter, ensure the helipad is clear, over."
"Medical team to ward four—"
"Engineers to the generator room—"
"Helicopter cleared to land."
The radio cut off, the comms channels falling silent. A military boot knocked the door open wider with their toe, the dark red light spilled from the corridor onto the filing cabinets. Her eyes landed on the drawer she'd left open, her bloody footprints leading up to it.
Shit.
The buzz-cut man waited—the same man who'd brought her here—his handgun raised as she squirmed, pressed up against the desk as much as she could go. Her power ran dry through her veins, nothing more than an itch beneath her skin. A small wisp of purple aura weaved between her fingers, tingling as she tried to call her power forth but it stayed dormant. The drug working its magic on her. She gritted her jaw and balled her hands into fists, counting the seconds as the man's footsteps followed her tracks.
One. Two.
Just a bit more.
Almost.
Three.
She lunged up, her heart in her mouth as she vaulted over the desk and knocked the computer with her. Her nails caught on his webbing as she collided hard with his chest, knocking the air out of him as she threw his aim; the gun fired but missed. It flew from his grip and spun on the floor, landing beside the door.
They twisted as they hit the floor side by side, his hands snatched her hair and twisted hard as she jammed her fingers into his eye sockets. She bit her teeth together hard enough to hear a crack. His fist swung for her jaw but she yanked back, driving her knee into his chest as she squirmed for the gun. It brushed against her fingers, milimetres out of reach as he seized her by the ankles and yanked her back.
"Stay still, you little sod," he growled.
"Fuck you!" she spat.
His hand activated his radio as she fought in his grip. "I found her! Floor—"
Her foot worked free and collided with his jaw.
He grunted and fell back, his head hitting the cabinet with a wet crunch as she snatched the gun. The handgun felt heavy in her hands as she aimed it square at his chest, fighting to catch her breath as her chest rose and fell madly. Her hands trembled but she held steady; this was her last chance, and her only chance at levelling the playing field. He groaned, slumped against the drawers as his hands gripped the back of his head grimacing, his steel grey eyes fixated on the barrel.
She stood slowly, her hip stabbing in pain, and worked her way backwards until her back touched the wall. She glanced out onto the empty corridor as the surgeons' argument grew louder. His eyes narrowed at her.
"Tell me everything, starting with R.B.I.C.," she breathed.
He smirked and spat on the floor, blood between his teeth. "Go fuck yourself."
"I've got the gun now," she whispered, "bitch."
"Go on then, shoot me. Do that and you'll end up in a cell like the rest of them."
"I want to know what R.B.I.C is," she said, checking the barrel of the gun. A single brass bullet sat in the chamber. "You have ten seconds."
"Do you want to die?"
"Nine."
"You're asking for a state secret—"
"Eight."
"You can't shoot me anyway," he laughed, "a girl like you—"
She squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked up, the sound cracked and rang in her ears but the bullet missed, puncturing a hole through the filing cabinet just to the left of his shoulder instead in a spray of metal. He swore and snatched at his ears, staring up at her with his eyes wide. She cocked the gun awkwardly, hell, she'd do what she had to to get answers. The air grew hot, sweat running down her back as smoke rolled across the ceiling, clouding the roof. A minute to get out of there, no more than that.
She crouched down so she was eye-level with him, forcing her hands to be still as the barrel of the gun smoldered.
"A girl like me—" she lifted his chin with the tip of the barrel, " —can do more things than you can imagine." She aimed it at his heart. "Answers, right now. R.B.I.C., who are they, what do they do, what this building is for? Tell me everything."
"You really don't know anything, don't you?" he sneered.
"Six."
"Shouldn't you be worrying about your boyfriend?"
Her gut twisted. Jasper was going to die here too. "Three," she said, her voice shaking.
"You skipped!" he yelped.
"You're being an asshole." Her finger rested on the trigger. "Two."
He swore but raised his hands, "All right all right!" he snapped, sucking in a breath. "I'll tell you, but you ain't gonna like it."
"Try me, and don't lie."
A flicker of something ran across his eyes before he grimaced, lowering his hands slightly. "They're private contractors, an international corporation between four founder countries to do the dirty work no one else wants to do. They run the prisons and the testing centres, the governments runs the stock market, it's simple."
"And the files? The Pariahs that are . . ."
Her throat choked up, the word jammed in her mouth.
"I ask no questions," he said, "money is money."
Ice slid through her veins. Money is money, and blood money was still money. The gun felt too heavy in her hands, the metal burned against her skin as she clung to the wall. Blood business, that's all this was. A blood business that murdered politicians and twisted Pariahs for profit. The man shifted, his hand going for his leg before she snapped the gun back to him, levelled on his head.
"I gave you what you wanted," he said slowly.
"Which countries?" she whispered. "Which fucking countries?"
His mouth curved into a crooked smile, "Russia, Britain, Indonesia, Canada."
Oh fuck.
Hysteria clawed at her throat, jamming her mouth shut as it seized at the corners of her mind. Panic roped her chest and started to constrict as she struggled for air, falling back against the wall as she fumbled blindly for the door handle. Something snapped deep inside of her as alarms sounded in the operating theater. Jasper was hurting, he was dying, and she cut feel each slice of the scalpel as if it was her own. White hot pain burned along her ribs as she backed out the room, the gun still raised.
"Follow me and I'll shoot you," she said, and she meant it.
The temperature in the corridor plummeted as black smoke crawled the ceiling, the corridor bathed in the red emergency lights but as she staggered into the wall she felt it again. The yank in her chest, the rush of adrenaline and the need at the same time. Golden light burst from the operating theater, sparking and fusing with the electric circuits as lightning struck the roof over and over.
Bile stung her throat, her blood pressure dropping.
Get out of here. Get out get out get out.
Her legs refused to move as she stayed slumped onto the wall, holding it for dear life as the pain started to spread. Her ribs cracked as the fire burned in her mind. She was out of her depth, massively out of her league, and now she was pending disposal just like the rest of them. A flare of her aura lashed out, the purple haze whipped at his golden aura as she fell to her knees and sobbed, grabbing her head. Her vision blurred, the pain too great, as if something was splitting her skull into two.
The gun tumbled from her hands as the helipad doors opened, a gale rushed through the corridor tearing the paper free from the floor. Power itched at her fingers, begging for release, breaking and pushing at the blocker that ran through her veins. The need to release it coiled and wound in her chest as the wind from the helicopter blades cut through the smoke on the ceiling.
A man ran through the helipad doors, a revolver aloft flanked by two others. His trench coat caught by the wind as he signalled the other two to go to the stairs. Tears dripped down her chin as she reached out and hooked her fingers around the gun, raising it at him. She was dead, she was a dead woman walking.
So she might as well take someone with her.
"Evangeline?" the man called, walking towards her slowly. "Eva?"
"Stay back," she said. "Just stay back."
"You need to stop what you're doing, kid."
The corridor faded from around her, plunging into darkness as sound rang in her ears shrill like a woman screaming. Something crackled like static, an outline formed around the man. Distorting and shifting, fizzling around his edges like static whining as if a television couldn't tune into the station.
She shuffled back, the gun aimed at where he was. Her heart tripped on itself as his outline faded to nothing but pure static, tearing a hole in her mind. Forcing his way into the world in front of her as he held the handgun aloft, a wicked grin on his face. The corridor melted around them as the man's movements jarred and lagged, glitching as his shape flitted.
"—listen to me, goddamn it. Put down the gun—"
"Y-You—"
She squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked but the bullet didn't fire.
She pulled it again.
Click. Click. Click.
Again.
He neared.
Click.
She turned the gun on herself, pressing the barrel against her forehead.
"Get out of my head!" she screamed.
He swooped, breaking the gun from her grip and throwing it away from them. She swiped out to scratch him but he pinned her arms to her sides, his face shifted, crackling with grey static that hissed and danced across his skin. The air burned as she tried to scream, choking on the smoke as he clamped a hand over her mouth. Electric shocks jumped from his skin to hers as he hauled her to her feet, leaning her against his side as he dragged her with him.
"—snap out of it, you're having a hallucination—"
"Get out," she whispered, "just get out."
"Listen to yourself, kid!"
The static mask broke, just for a second, but Kingsley's rugged features broke through. Oh hell, she really was going mad. This was an illusion, this was a game, this had to be the Illusionist's doing. Her head seared again as she groaned, slumping against him.
"You're supposed to be dead," she said.
"I know."
He didn't understand. "You died."
"I know."
She gritted her teeth, trying to think past the cigarette hug he had her in. His arm went to her waist, holding her up as her knees buckled. Detective Thomas Kingsley died the night they went into the flood tunnels, drowned after she'd overdone it with her power. She'd seen the Reaper perform CPR on him, pushing the water out of his lungs, even when it frothed on his lips. That man was dead.
She shoved him hard, whacking him away with her fist as a set of doors swung open around them. Bitter antiseptic filled her nose as she blinked hard, the room wobbled around her. Surgeons crowded around a table, spare guards held torches on the table as Jasper lay beneath the green cloth, blood soaking into it.
Her breath caught in her throat, she was his donor.
"You were meant to take care of her," Kingsley snapped at someone.
"She's picked up a virus—"
"We can work around it."
"—her core temperature is too high."
The surgeon cut in. "Get a cannula in. He needs a transfusion quick."
The suppressant in her veins failed but it was too late, someone came up from behind and forced her into a chair, strapping a mask over her face as the ceiling smoldered. She tried to tear at it but Kingsley forced her hands onto the arms of the chair, something clicked and sickly sweet gas filled the mask.
A flare of purple light burst from her fingertips but gradually reduced to a wisp.
Her gaze fell to Jasper wildly as a needle pricked her forearm.
You were right. They're lying.
They're hunting us.