Are you ready?!
Day 3,861
Alleviation; the action or process of making suffering, deficiency or a problem less severe. To make a situation easier to endure; lessen; mitigate. The feeling is associated with the sight of waves upon waves of celestial, ethereal, heart-crushing homesick clouds. As if Harry had closed his eyes only to open them inside of the world's largest bubble, a flimsy shield of opalescent soap so delicate that it could burst if he breathed too enthusiastically. He knows this type of dream, his most perfect reoccurring platform, the only event in his life that had made it worth living until you'd actually manifested in reality.
He's home. He's nostalgic in half a heartbeat, drifting through the haze of a dream so foggy and surreal that it could only have one meaning. He's been here before - not specifically here in this exact scenario - but in this mindset, engulfed by an electric, rainbow sherbet blanket of love and hope. Drowning in heavenly, divine, gossamer threads that weave through his brain over and over again to muffle every negative vibration in his body. He's sucked under by a tidal wave of sentiment so strong that all he can do is prop his shoulder up on the nearest brick wall and draw in the deepest breath he can manage.
Dreams spotlighting you have historically appeared and felt different. They're in a category of their own, neither color nor black-and-white, but rather transcendental and florid. A motley of emotion and a prism of hues, as if he had stepped into the center of the sun but were immune to the heat. Different in the most divine and holy way possible, like walking into a kitchen that smells richly of his favorite meal cooking in the oven or diving head first into a cool body of water after baking in the sprawling sunshine.
He hasn't had a dream about you in half a year, since the coffee shop premonition that eventually led him right to your fingertips. It could possibly be the longest he's gone since he's had a precognitive visit from you in his whole lifetime and he has wondered in the past if his colored dreams involving you as the subject were meant to slow down or maybe even completely stop because he's been graced by your actual presence. Now that he's been stuck away from you and inside of a laboratory for one day shy of three months, he was hoping that the least the universe could do was acquaint him with your hologram for a mere five minutes. And it seems to have delivered.
His skin prickles and he hisses at the painful but gratifying sting, his sight traveling down to his palm to eye the cluster of four warped stars before suctioning his hand to his chest and gripping his heart tightly. He can't believe it. He can't fucking believe that he is going to see you around any corner at any moment now and he is vibrating from each one of his cells and neurons at the anticipation of being in your presence once again. Each time a premonition has occurred since his arrival here he has quickly woken himself up but this time not even a pack of hungry, wild lions could drag him away. This is where he belongs and he's going to keep his feet rooted here until the image of you fades into the obscure dark corners of his brain.
He's become so comfortably accustomed to lucid dreaming over time that he is now aware of his physical body asleep inside of The Cephalo Initiative as well as his mind having traveled to whatever lies ahead for you, his chest filled with a film of giddiness as he prepares to unfold your future one footstep at a time. He has the wherewithal to fill his lungs with a deep, cleansing breath before pushing himself from the wall and taking note of his surroundings; a dark alleyway illuminated by a single, flickering streetlight. It quivers so rapidly that it almost makes him feel sick to his stomach and reminds him of the strobe lights at the warehouse party, his gaze angling down to his toes for an instant of focus and recovery.
The shoes on his feet are ones that he's never worn before. They're blacker than night, patent and shiny and he's seen them before but he can't place exactly where because his mind is too caught up in the prospect of you lingering in the shadows. He paces several footsteps backwards towards the bustle in search of a street sign or a store front that he recognizes, and when he reaches the end of the alley and pokes his head around the corner, he's stuffed to the brim with relief when he sees that he's just a block or so from Pink Moon. He checks the time on the massive clock tower that lies several blocks from where he stands, taking note of it being just after four in the morning and concluding that you must be getting off of work around now.
"Hey! ARA bitch, where ya goin' so fast?"
Harry's head whips to the side to focus down the thinned out sidewalk, spotting the intruder with the coarse and slimy language in a heartbeat. A tall man that he doesn't recognize, broad shoulders and the cherry of a cigarette turning bright orange against the backdrop of nightfall as he sucks smoke into his lungs. Harry narrows his eyes and feels the burn of anger brewing in his stomach just before his thoughts are vacuumed clean by the sound of high heels clacking against pavement. His mouth shapes the word that he's come to associate with you, his teeth scraping across his bottom lip on the heavy consonant sound, his heartbeat thumping two times before coming to a screeching halt.
"Didn't I see you at a protest last week with all of your dumbass, crunchy friends talking shit about peace? You're all a waste of space. Can't even see the truth when it's right in front of you. You're a terrorist." His voice echoes near and slurs with intoxication, "I'm talking to you, little girl."
The click of high heels draws closer and Harry glances over his other shoulder just in time to witness you coming into focus. The scent of your shampoo seals his sinuses shut and the beat of his heart sounds a lot like the Big Bang on repetitive loops, his shaky hand lifting into the air to reach for you as you pass only to miss the delicacy of your skin by a few centimeters. He turns on the ball of his foot and follows right behind you, his eyes set on the way your hair flutters over your shoulders and how narrow your waist and legs look in comparison to the last time he'd seen you. His chest feels heavy with the desire to coddle you and assure you that he's alive and marginally okay, to kiss you and hold you and regard you but the glass wall that surrounds him in this state forces him into silent discomfort.
You're bold as you continue to walk in the direction of the man harassing you on the street corner, having dealt with your fair share of shit talkers and ignorance throughout the years of being a staunch ARA. You roll your shoulders back to release tension from your neck as you strut closer, your voice husky from shouting over loud music all evening, "the only waste of space on this block is the pile of garbage spewing ignorant hate at a stranger. If you'll excuse me-"
He interrupts you to carry on his creepy threatening, "I saw you at Pink Moon tonight," Harry can see your fingers grip tightly around your waist at the stranger's revelation and he knows it's not from the cold air. You stop walking when he mentions your job before taking a step backwards and scanning the nearly-empty streets for an escape route or help, but you know that no one is interested in helping someone who sympathizes with Adroits, "an activist and a hooker, huh? I said come here."
You spin and start walking back from the way you came, your feet carrying you much faster this time in an effort to flee. Harry's fingers curl into fists as the harasser flicks his cigarette before approaching behind you slowly, a soft and baneful melody whistling past his lips as he gains speed on your stride. Just as you lower one foot off of the sidewalk and prepare your muscles to take off running, he jogs a couple steps and grabs your bicep tightly. Harry's throat and insides tighten as he reacts in an instant, his hands reaching out to grip the back of the harasser's shirt but no matter how hard he tries or concentrates, he's unable to make contact with him.
You gasp in fear as your body is jerked backwards and tugged close to the man assaulting you, "don't touch me!" You raise your arm to strike him but he catches your wrist and squeezes tightly, the two of you struggling against each other as you whimper and tug and attempt whatever you can to unweave yourself from his clutch, "I said get your fucking hands off of me!" You cry out in pain when he grabs a fistful of your hair and drags you towards the alleyway where Harry had entered his premonition, the attacker's strength overpowering you when he gathers both of your wrists in one of his hands and slams you up against the brick wall.
Bile swims in Harry's stomach as he watches the scene that he's powerless to change unfold before him, a wretched sob bubbling it's way up his esophagus and getting caught in his throat. He croaks your name before swallowing a gust of air and shouting it hysterically once more at the top of his lungs, his last ditch effort to distract the attacker as if he could scream it so loudly that it would effect the future. His fingers tangle into his hair and his cheast heaves, his guts coated in a lick of flames when the stranger reaches into his back pocket to unsheathe a small butterfly knife.
Meteoric light reflects from the blade in the streetlight and this time the volume of your scream matches Harry's. He squeezes his eyes shut and decides that there is absolutely nothing that he can do in this moment to save you. He rambles a series of frantic affirmations to aid in clawing his way out of this nightmare, until the soft and malicious rainbow of his premonition begins to fade with the same sensation that a sleeping limb has when blood returns to it.
Harry's eyes fly open and his sight is met with the sterile ceiling of his cell as he sucks in a lungful of breath and processes the premonition he's just had. The butterfly knife is burned into his brain and his retinas, the agonizing shout you uttered echoing against the walls of his skull and fighting with obnoxious beeping from his dream monitoring equipment that signals the CI scientists to the occurrence of a precognition. He sits up on his creaky and uncomfortable cot, his jumpsuit clinging to his sweaty back and his throat raw from the desperate screams he surely emitted in his sleep.
Another image of you being dragged by your hair is all Harry needs to have him falling out of his bed onto his hands and knees, crawling across the frigid ground to his stainless steel toilet and retching into the empty bowl. His stomach convulses as he dry heaves, the lack of sustenance in his guts forcing his insides to squeeze and clench miserably as his body attempts to expel what he just saw. You're not okay, you're not going to be okay and there will be no one to help you. He tightens his fingers into a fist and punches the tank of the toilet, a stifled cry tangling in his chest as his helplessness racks his skeleton over and over again.
The hallway of the laboratory is dimly lit to indicate the time of night, a jarring buzzing sound screeching down the lonely corridor alerting Harry of the impending presence of an Emissary officer. He knows that they're coming to collect him to cart him off to a medical room for testing, but he's unable to concentrate on his fate because all he can think about is whether or not you're going to survive this attack.
The heavy tread of black, shiny patent leather boots amass volume as they make their way down the hall, the rubber soles squeaking to a halt just outside of the laser beams holding him in his cell. His hands tremble from fear and anguish but there's a tiny pilot light burning with blue flame inside of his core to remind him that he needs to hold himself together, to play their game and maintain his charade of apathy and distance. The less they know about him and his affliction the better; the less he shows them, the less they see. The less they suspect, the more he can accomplish.
The Emissary officer remains silent as he unhooks his key fob from his back belt loop, holding it to the lock pad to dissolve the laser beams before taking three taunting steps towards Harry's crouched and quivering figure. Harry is frustrated with his inability to harness the involuntary tremble in his muscles, mostly due to the fact that he's malnourished but also because this premonition is the most painful one he's ever experienced. He's always felt powerless in the scenarios that unfold before him but this one is in a class of its own; his sad, broken star dimming and bloodless with impending doom breathing down your neck. His colored dreams typically occur sometime within forty eight hours of his vision and his intuition tells him that this one will be happening sooner rather than later, the ticking time bomb of your fate weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Harry initiates conversation with an Emissary Officer for the first time since he was captured, "what time is it?"
The officer takes another step forward and hauls Harry to his feet, his head whirling with dizziness and his knees buckling from the jarring movement that his body was not prepared for. His hair falls across his face and he really feels like he needs to vomit but he knows that nothing will end this bout of nausea, possibly ever. His brain is a wild stampede of questions and anxiety, fear of the unknown and pure, dismal anarchy. His heart is dead and lifeless.
The officer ignores his questioning and grips his bicep to lead him down the resonant corridor. Harry digs his heels into the ground to try and ask for the time again but is instead met with a hard backhand across his cheek, his teeth gritting in livid anger and pain at the absorption of nonsensical violence and the residual sting of knuckles on skin. The officer tries to walk again but this time Harry's head is spinning much too quickly for him to take a step forward, his eyes squeezing shut for inner balance as he pulls in a hefty drag of air and gives it another chance, "I just need to know the-"
Before he can finish his sentence, his chest is forced up upon the cold and shiny white wall, his cheek crushed against the surface and a ghastly grunt escaping from between his teeth as the officer clasps Harry's wrists behind his back and zip ties them shut. The cuff is suffocating and immediately cutting off circulation to his hands, Harry knows that he is doing this to enforce power and to acerbate him as a reason to expel aggression. Every single one of these heartless government employees gets off on the idea of inciting a fight only to be the ones to end it in cold blood, "shut up or I'll shut you up."
Harry rolls his lips together and clenches his jaw tight, deciding that no matter how deranged and furious he is in this moment that he will never achieve a shred of information from the man tossing him around like raw meat. He reverts back to the absent persona he'd succeeded in showing those in charge at the flip of a switch, dropping his chin to his feet and allowing himself to be carted off to the medical room where he hopes to be rewarded with an answer or two. The CI scientists are inherently just as callous and stand-offish as the Emissary, but at least they don't frighten him into barefaced submission.
The first thing that Harry notices when he's buzzed into the medical examination room is the single CI scientist hovered over a sleek see-through tablet at his desk, his fingers wrapped in antiseptic vinyl gloves and his head shielded by the beetle-like Telepathic blocking helmet. The second thing he notices is the familiar fragile and frightened Telepath/Telekinetic hybrid human who is a product of scientific breeding. He swallows a lump in his throat when they lock eyes on one another, the young teenager laid out on a lab table and receiving a late-night feeding while their body remains listless and tired. The third thing that Harry notices is that he's being led to a chair that resembles a demented dentist engine with straps on the armrests and foot holsters, a half-sphere at the top which appears to be an apparatus to hover around his head for invasive brain study regarding the premonition he's just endured.
The Emissary officer plops him down in the chair and cuts his zip-ties before shackling his limbs to the chair and crossing the room to speak at a hushed volume with the scientist. They nod at one another tersely and the officer leaves without another glance over his shoulder, Harry presumes to assume his position in the hallway in case the scientist feels as though he needs extra security. The scientist paces the room with the tablet in hand before approaching Harry's restrained body, not even bothering to address him before he begins attaching monitors and securing a royal blue electro-cap over his curls.
"Please-" The scientist snaps his gaze to Harry's, studying the dark circles under his eyes and the sharp jut of his jawline, "can you please tell me what time it is?"
He has been working with Harry on and off since he was brought here, always attempting to ask him questions for the purpose of research but never having earned more than three or four words from him at a time. He takes note that perhaps Precognitives are more vulnerable once they awaken from a dream and reminds himself to add that to his analysis text. He's so thrown off by hearing the gravelly drag of Harry's voice that he doesn't hesitate to glimpse at the clock on his tablet, "quarter past one in the morning. Do your premonitions typically occur as soon as you fall asleep, in the middle of the night or closer towards the end of your sleep cycle?"
Harry's mind rewinds back to the time he read on the clock tower, his premonition having taken place just after four in the morning. He doesn't hear his next question because he is busy doing a quick mathematical assessment to surmise that he has just under three hours to find you.
The fourth thing that Harry notices is that due to the necessity of the electro-cap for EEG monitoring, his usual Telepath blocking helmet has been forgotten.
He curses himself for not realizing it sooner, for not connecting the dots and understanding that if he had given them insight into his brain weeks upon weeks ago that his scheme could have been executed much sooner.
"Do you need me to repeat the question?"
Harry peels his stare away from the hybrid being fed across the room and returns his attention back to the scientist, the beeping of his brain monitoring equipment yet another distraction to his mental transactions. He's wondering exactly what the scientist can see on his secretive tablet, what each hiccup and nuanced signal from the monitoring equipment means, how much information is involuntarily being given away by choosing to be outwardly obedient for the first time since he's arrived as a prisoner. He clears his throat and nods, concentrating diligently on not letting his gaze wander to the teenager just a few feet away from him.
The scientist types a series of short notes before opening his mouth to reiterate, "do your premonitions-" but is interrupted by the soft alert of the infusion pump completing its allotted nutritional course, "one minute."
Harry watches as he paces across the room and disconnects his patient from the IV, sitting them up slowly and robotically informing them to take their time so they won't faint. The hybrid is left to their own devices with their feet swinging from the edge of the medical table as the scientist makes his way back over to Harry to resume his prying. He repeats his question a second time and Harry keeps his stare glued to the scientist but is also careful to hold the hybrid in his peripheral vision, "middle, end. Dunno."
The scientist nods and scrawls a few more notes on his tablet before stepping behind his desk to gather additional contrivances for further invasive testing of Harry's most protected organ. Harry's eyes dart back and forth between the distracted scientist and the relaxed hybrid before he squeezes his eyes shut, fills his lungs to capacity then silently deflates the entire cavity of his chest through a small crack in his mouth. His palms sweat as he balls his fists and tugs his arms towards his ribcage to feel the steady feedback of his restraints. The room spins around him and his months-long plan hops and skips and blurts across his eyelids before rekindling into a linear movie reel. He is prepared to die again, he's never let that possibility leave his consciousness but at least this time if he dies, it will be with honor.
That's when it clicks and settles. The signs; the premonitions and the celestial reunion of your cosmic dust within the chaos of the city. The universe has carefully crafted this exact moment and every detail leading up to it to place Harry in a unique position of being able to dismantle this whole system from the inside out. As if the Emissary had poked the caged, starving, angry tiger with a stick for its entire life and now they've forgotten to lock the gates behind them. Big fucking mistake.
Harry's thoughts are loud when he projects them across the room to the Telepathic/Telekinetic hybrid for a private, cerebral conversation, his teeth clenched shut and his mouth unmoving but the beta signals from his brain are determined. The hybrid isn't used to hearing voices unless they are told to listen, so they seem startled when Harry's gentle drone reverberates their skull, 'don't be scared. Stay still. Blink twice if you can hear me.'
Their mouth parts to allow a slip of breath through and their fidgety eyes dart around the room in guilty, chaotic alarm, but luckily Harry has learned plenty of deescalation techniques through all of the time he's spent with you, 'it's okay. You're doing great. Breathe.' When Harry notices their chest rise then fall he continues, 'look at me.' They lock eyes and Harry's heart skips a beat before stalling then releasing into a panic of anticipation. He glances at the scientist who is opening drawers with his back to his patients before he returns his attention to the hybrid, 'please unlock my straps as quietly as you can. You can trust me, I promise.'
He can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead and back but he reminds himself to stay unmoving and composed, he has a feeling that the CI scientist would be able to gauge even the slightest shift in emotional energy in the room. He repeats the word 'breathe' in a constant loop to the struggling human across the room, both as a reminder for himself and the stranger he is placing all of his faith into. He can see the apprehension and fear of the unknown on their face, but Harry is feeling much too persuasive and driven to allow this opportunity to slip through the cracks. He may never have an chance quite like this again; the perfect storm of nuanced elements for the both of them to be in the same room together and for his brainwaves to be unshielded. For his heart to be aflame with encouragement from his wicked premonition. For you to be alive on this earth to carry him forward.
All of this time Harry thought he was of no use to you, nothing but an energy vampire but your magnetic draw towards each other has become obvious; you were both manifested on this earth to keep one another alive and he will be damned if he's going to fail.
The hybrid keeps their eyes locked on Harry's transfixed, tense body and then without warning, he can feel the release of pressure around his right wrist as the cuff begins to loosen. Harry eggs them on with tender nudges of 'that's great' and 'keep going' until the cuff on his right wrist, then his left, followed by the two at his ankles unfurl like the slow haul of a new, baby leaf on a plant until they fall away from his limbs and lay limp against his skin.
His body breaks out in goosebumps as his nostrils tick and he nods once at the person across the room in gratitude, his head dragging to the side just in time to see the scientist pacing towards him with a large, sterile needle. The scientist's attention in downcast towards the barrel of the syringe as he approaches Harry's body, his fingers lifting to tap against the glass twice to pop any bubbles in the liquid, "this will pinch and then you'll go back to sleep for a couple hours for further testing." The scientist and Harry catch eyes before he lowers the needle dripping with a molecule of strong anesthesia towards the meat in Harry's shoulder.
Harry has experienced the indescribable feeling of time slowing to a near halt at exactly three times in his life; when the Emissary came for him and his family, the moment he saw you in reality for the first time and the day he was captured. All of his senses heighten and the static of numbing deafness with a backdrop of windy breath overwhelms his skull. Regardless of his weakness from malnutrition, strength that he didn't even know he possessed takes over; a will to survive, a will to live, a will to rescue.
The physical impulse of both fight and flight tingles the tips of Harry's toes, his breathing and heart rate picking up simultaneously when he hones in on the decision to act upon the plan that he's mulled over dozens of times. He pinches his eyes closed before popping them open and then his mind wipes clean when his bent arm swings upwards in a swift and graceful jab, his elbow landing square into the belly of the scientist's nose. His bone cracks and he cries out in shock as he stumbles backwards, the needle soaring out of his hand to clatter upon the ground. His reaction to the unfolding situation is lightyears slower than Harry's and he finds himself disabled when Harry springs up and out of the chair to lodge another splintering right hook into his eye socket.
Without taking his eyes off of the scientist, Harry reaches down to sweep the syringe from the ground and uses his free hand to lock his fingers around the scientist's throat before backing him up and slamming him into the closest wall. He raises the needle and jams it into the throbbing artery in his neck, depressing the plunger to release the anesthetic into his blood stream. The scientist wails once in pain and fear before his eyelids begin drooping shut, his hands attempting to claw Harry away but instead they fall limp and drop to his sides as Harry lowers him to the ground and steps away from his unconscious body.
He wastes no time to cross the room and buzz the Emissary officer inside, but not before swiping a large, empty glass beaker from a lab table. He looks at the hybrid and holds his hand in the air before pressing his index finger to his lips as if to communicate to stay put and be quiet, his back flattening up against the wall beside the door as he waits for him to cross the threshold.
We are more than what hurts. We are more than what has hurt us. We are more than the hurt we have inflicted upon others, the world and ourselves.
The door slides open and the Emissary officer steps inside, his confusion to the off-kilter scene around him only lasting a split second before Harry raises the beaker into the air and breaks it over the back of his neck where his protective helmet leaves a vulnerable patch of bare skin. It shatters upon impact and causes him to stagger forwards before he regains his balance and spins clumsily to face his assailant. Harry is on him in the same instant armed with a large shard of broken glass, the jagged weapon slicing a thick flap across his throat that oozes and spurts a viscous spray of blood that reeks of iron and rusted metal. The officer groans and gurgles on his own plasma before he sinks to his knees and then falls face-first onto the ground, a vexing sheet of crimson pooling out onto the stark-white and glossy floor to signal his demise.
The room is silent aside from Harry's breathing and the whimpering of the hybrid still perched on the lab table, the heavy notion of death and destruction lingering in the musty space but this is just the beginning and Harry will not allow himself to stop and process until he is with you. He unzips his bloody jumpsuit and balls it up before tossing it into the nearest trash receptacle, wiping the back of his hand across his face and effectively smearing streaks of red across his nose and cheekbone. His hands shake with adrenaline as he squats down and rolls the officer onto his back, careful to avoid looking at his face or the serrated wound on his neck as he begins unbuttoning his shirt and disrobing him completely.
Harry gathers the Emissary's saturated, black shirt and drops it into a deep, stainless steel sink to run water over it, noticing the diluted blood that fills the vessel before it begins to run clear and funnel down the drain. He charges across the room and opens several drawers before locating a scalpel and a tourniquet, wrapping the sturdy fabric just above his elbow and cinching it closed with his teeth before huffing out a nervous breath of air. The continued soundtrack of high-resonant humming and steady, loaded breaths whirr through his ear canals as he locates the tracker in his bicep with his thumb and then digs his scalpel into his skin just below it in order to pop it from the layers of tissue.
He gasps and cries at the malicious stinging burn, tears squeaking out of the corners of his eyes as he grits his teeth and hooks the medical instrument underneath the piece of metal to dislodge it from his skin and onto the floor. Once it's removed, he takes a moment to hang his head and catch his breath before glancing over his shoulder at the two motionless bodies on the floor to confirm their disabled conditions. Harry gathers a handful of gauze and a bandage to hastily swathe his self-inflicted wound, grabbing the ejected tracker from the ground and discarding it down the drain where the Emissary officer's shirt now lays in a clean, wadded heap.
His hands fumble with the faucet to shut it off before he collects the shirt and wrings as much water from it as he can. He pulls on the entire, evil uniform all the way from helmet to boots, buckling the belt around his narrow waist before tucking the gun into the holster and running his fingers over the key fob attached to the belt loop to double check that it's in place. He's never fired a gun before and now that he considers it, he doesn't think he's ever held one either but he's watched enough movies to figure out how to use it if a situation becomes dire. He takes one more comprehensive look at the catastrophic room before his sight lands on the hybrid who is now standing by the lab table with their back against the wall, their hand covering their mouth in shock and their eyes drilling holes into Harry's restless figure.
Harry wants to help them, he really does, but he knows that he has approximately two hours to find you before you're left bleeding to death in a dismal alleyway. There are tens of thousands of people that Harry wishes he could help, but you've always told him that he deserves to be selfish for once and that's exactly what he plans to do. He paces towards the Telepathic/Telekinetic and clears his throat, his eloquence lost in the heat and rush of battle but he manages a few husky words of advice, "don't trust anyone. Run. You have a special gift. Don't be afraid to use it. You'll be okay." He turns to leave before he stops and looks over his shoulder, his voice softening as he bears a moment of gratitude followed by a curt nod, "thank you."
Harry's brow creases in concentration before he spins on the ball of his foot and uses the key fob to open the door that leads him out into the hallway, his head poking out to survey the scene before he slinks through the threshold and begins walking with as much confidence as he can muster down the empty corridor. His boots click against the shiny linoleum as he walks towards the illuminated sign that reads "Telekinetic Wing" with an arrow communicating the direction of their location.
He steps foot into the wing and pulls the fob from the key ring dangling at his hip, taking off in a quick saunter down the hallway lined with cell after cell sealed shut with bars crafted from laser beams. He passes each one but not before pausing to hold the key to the lock pad to dissolve the constraining crossbars, unlocking each door that imprisons an Adroit as he moves. He makes his way to the end of the corridor after he's freed a minimum of fifty bewildered prisoners, turning to face them as they step out of their cells one by one and look at each other in confusion. If he's going to walk out the front door with alarms blaring and the threat of attack around any corner, he's going to do it within a group of people who are just like him in order to remain hidden.
Harry whistles with his thumb and index fingers nestled into his mouth and as if choreographed, their heads snap in his direction and their muscles freeze in anticipation of an explanation. He clears his throat and speaks loudly and clearly, possibly the most notably in his entire life, "I'm one of you, an Adroit. Cut the lights, open the doors. Free the others. Remove your tracking devices. Kill them all. We're walking out the front door tonight."
It only takes one brave Telekinetic to shout a word of agreement before they all scramble and take off running in dozens of different directions, the hallway vibrating with the energy of a tornado sweeping through it and the exquisite taste of freedom. Doors open and slam shut, electrical wiring unravels from the ceiling and click against the ground in sparking threats of avoidance. Harry can hear them spreading throughout several hallways and wings, using the powerful force of their minds to move objects from walls and shelves, sliding chairs and medical tables to block doors and restrict authoritarian personnel from stopping them. Some of them are tackling any Emissary officer who steps in their way to the ground, stealing their key fobs and guns to gain access to medical rooms to gather weapons and destroy any evidence of their long bouts of invasive testing.
A group of Adroits who would prefer not to fight and would rather focus on escape crowd around Harry and when he feels as though he's got a large enough group to break out of the lab undetected within the masses, he spins and takes off in a long-legged dash down the winding passages in search of an exit. Fifteen or twenty Adroits stay within arm's reach of their new savior and leader, but the only thing that Harry has on his mind is a way out of this building and an ethereal supernova. His siren has led you to him and in turn, he will lead the both of you to safety.
More and more Adroits join the hunt for the exit as they are released from their cells until there is a throng of what feels like a hundred starving, angry and broken human beings traveling in a pack behind the one person they've all chosen to put their allegiance into. They haven't had a single opportunity to feel hope or autonomous power in months or years in some cases, and they've all reached a point of abandonment. Whether or not this plot pans out in their favor is the least of their concern, so long as they can feel the simple joy of flexing their muscles beyond the walls of a medical room or a prison cell before they perish.
Harry buzzes them through entryway after entryway until the hallway opens up into a sizable lobby and his heart explodes with unmitigated joy at the sight. He knows he's close - he just knows it - and when he sees the LED sign illuminated with the words "The Cephalo Initiative", he races towards it and allows a small sob of relief to erupt from his chest when a row of doors appear before his very eyes. He kicks the front door twice until it bursts forth, no hesitation in his step when he takes off in a cool stride through the threshold with the chaos of Telekinetics wreaking havoc on the sprawling torture chamber and an endless stream of prisoners flowing out the doors behind him.
Once out on the streets, the Telekinetics use the strength of their minds to dismantle any Tocsin machine they pass, neon signage from nearby buildings breaking apart and crashing to the ground, car windows are shattering and tires popping with the hiss of depression. Harry doesn't recognize his location or any of the landmarks in his landscape, but he can hear an invisible clock ticking in his eardrums and he needs to sort out a way to find you with the little amount of resources at his disposal. He can tell that he is on the outskirts of the city by the way the looming, menacing skyline hovers in the distance and it's when he hears the high-pitched rumble of a small engine that the rest of his plan snaps into place.
Harry runs towards the scooter with his arms outstretched and palms flat, his body bathed in the shine from their headlights as he stands rigid in the middle of the street and silently demands the driver to stop. They come screeching to a halt and take in the sight of his Emissary uniform, the chaos of freed Adroits unraveling all around them and the decisive curl of Harry's exposed mouth from below the eye shield of his helmet. Harry pulls his gun from the holster and approaches with a single hand and his weapon held in the air, his voice a stubborn resonance that is foreign to him, "abandon your vehicle. My apologies. It's urgent."
The driver follows Harry's order and scrambles away from the scooter just in time to see Harry nod once before he's mounting the bike and taking off in a cloud of dust towards the neon rainbow of the city. He rides for twenty, thirty, forty five minutes until he begins to see buildings and businesses that he recognizes, traffic signs that alert him to the direction he needs to be traveling and the once-small cluster of the city gaining size as he draws closer.
Fire and porcupine quills, needles and thumbtacks, burrs and cactuses press against Harry's skin from the inside out. His stomach swims with sickness and the familiar nauseating sensations that warn him to a forthcoming premonition cloak his body in malady. He knows that you're getting ready to leave Pink Moon and he knows what happens next, so when he takes in the alleviating and familiar sight of the streets he's traveled to work hundreds of times, he hunches forward over the handlebars of his scooter as if it'll help him gain headway. He takes a hard right and glances up at the clock tower to discover that his time is running short, a frustrated growl vibrating his throat as he pushes the throttle as fast as it can go.
Harry skids to a stop, cuts the engine and hops off the scooter a block away from where he expects your struggle to take place. Everything inside of his body aches; the open wound where he removed his tracker and the torturous prickle of needling angst about your survival, the exposed crack in his heart at the prospect of seeing you again and your reunion being one of either devastating slaughter or unimaginable bliss. He walks as quietly as he can down the stagnant sidewalk until his ears liven with the beckoning sound of your shout, his feet breaking out into a sprint before rounding the corner and shattering to dust at the sight of his premonition come to life.
Once again, he slips the gun from his holster and holds it at attention, the safety is off but his finger is on the trigger and he hopes that he can get you out of this mess without having to kill another person, but he will not hesitate to use it if he has to. He approaches behind your attacker who has you pinned to the wall as you cry, fight and lash out, his heated whispers warning you to keep quiet and boiling Harry's blood to urge him to unlock the safety on his weapon.
Harry takes one more step and his dark figure is revealed from the shadows; his hair, face and tattoos hidden by the uniform of black which paints him as the enemy. Your eyes widen when you see the Emissary officer rounding the corner before your assailant does, your muffled cries diffused through the skin and bones of his hand that is clamped down over your mouth as he presses the point of the butterfly knife into your bellybutton. You squeeze your eyes closed and start to accept the notion of death in your near future, a hot streak of salty tears pinching out of the corner of your eyes and dribbling down your cheeks. This couldn't get any worse, trapped in a dark alleyway with one person who wants you dead and another who could care less if you live.
Harry swings his gun into the air and cracks the butt of his weapon into the attacker's skull with a sickening thud. He steps back to watch his body buckle to the ground in a weakened pile, the butterfly knife spinning from his grasp and onto the pavement. You are quick when you take the opportunity to run as soon as you're freed from his clutch, not bothering to look at the Emissary officer who may or may not have just saved your life while your stilettos drill into the ground as you flee from harm.
Heavy, booted footsteps echo behind you and you're defenseless against the desperate, pitiful sob that blurts out of your throat. You can feel and hear the Emissary officer gaining traction on you and just as you reach the end of the alley and grip the brick wall for purchase, the voice of a vanished but not forgotten spirit crackles through the mist and fog of the wretched night, "Nova!"
In perfect unison, both of your hearts clap twice before landing on a pause.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thank you so much for your patience while I dealt with a horrific loss of a dear friend on top of every other life transition I was managing. I'm feeling better now and I hope that the path to contentment will continue to carve with strong intention.
I saw a quote today that filled me with fire. It said: "As things stand now, I'm going to be a writer. I'm not sure I'm going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me into the dust and says, 'you are nothing', I will be a writer."
Thank you guys for everything.
One chapter and the epilogue are left.
Xxxxxx B