Nine men left. Three return. Only two I recognize.
Commander Horton, sadly, isn't one of them.
The guy I had since been admiring. The guy who was supposed to teach me a few more things about combat and about life, in general. The guy who had been nothing but honorable and whose character and skills all of mankind could benefit from. He's now gone. He had bitten the dust with a literal hole in his heart.
In his place is some stranger. A gangly, middle-aged man whose long, wavy, grey hair, receding hairline and overgrown beard are reminiscent of King Robert Baratheon's. He is a bit on the scrawny side—a stark contrast to the fictional king's more plump build—making him more of a Walder Frey, only younger and with bushier facial hair.
Versorium, his name is. Or, at least, it's what the Villagers have been referring to him as. Turns out, it's the only word he can pronounce. Our own Hodor, in short.
No one is sure whether he is a mentally-challenged man like the gentle giant character, someone suffering from dementia or another Ante in disguise. With everything that has happened, we can't be too sure about anything anymore.
Although it's premature to make a judgment by only seeing him from afar, I would bet on the latter, since he was basically found inside the basement of the mansion where the battle with those beasts—and the slaying of the commander, among a few other men—ensued. Sure, he was gagged and tied to a chair, painting him as a prisoner of the enemies and not their ally, but I was a prisoner of my own kind, wasn't I? Who knows if he was using all of it as a ploy to evade death, only to (literally) stab us in the back again?
We, humans, should be smarter than this, taking note of the fact that we can never be as physically and telekinetically advanced as they are. That is, if we ever intend for our race to outlive this era of hostility and chaos. Gullibility and obliviousness have no place in this new world. Recklessness, much less so.
"Versorium, eh?" I ask Johann, as we sit here on the dusty wooden floor inside one of the unoccupied houses along the road. "I wonder what he means by that."
With his back leaning on the concrete wall and his head tossed up to gaze at the night sky through a huge tear on the roof, he stays hushed as if he heard nothing. Both legs folded up and arms suspended on his knees, he responds with the faint sound of his breathing.
I look up to trace his gaze, to see what those peepers have been so busy about. Nothing there but the usual: a crescent moon surrounded by the stars across an expanse of dark blue hues, indigo and pitch black. Nothing even remotely extraordinary. No shooting star or hot air balloon or some anomalous, hovering, blinking lights others would automatically suspect as an alien spacecraft. Nothing.
As I straighten myself up from reclining, I turn my regard back to him and attempt to strike up a conversation another time. "Like that electric compass sort of device, maybe?"
Still nothing.
How detached can he be?
He seems consistently unfazed by being stared at. From what I can see through the soft brightness of the moon and the flickering flame from the lamp combined, he doesn't even dare twitch a facial muscle. Remarkable, since I could never not be bothered by having a pair of eyeballs at me for longer than a glimpse—not after this kind of looks has mutated from one of admiration to that of disgust and/or pity.
Instead, he maintains his gaze to the sky and his lips zipped up. If I haven't seen how parted those eyelids are, I would have mistaken him as already sound asleep.
It must be late, after all. Maybe around nine or ten.
Being forced not to have some watch strapped around my wrist because of constantly breaking them during fistfights at school, I have learned to rely on my innate sense of time. On a normal day, my estimate would be precise. But this isn't normal; nothing is anymore. There have been instances when days are wildly longer, and others when they are far too short. Today, especially, has been a long one—and that's after the long-ass night of the burial, the kidnapping and the trial.
Perhaps, it's having to live through those harrowing experiences that made everything seem like it was never ending. Perhaps, it's all just psychological. Nevertheless, none of these fussy details should hold much water anymore, since there are no more early morning school bells to catch, no television show schedules to take note of and no dinner dates never to be late at.
I sigh at these random, depressing thoughts. Then, I yawn, coupled with a single teardrop falling across my cheek. I wipe it with the back of my hand.
Finally, Johann breaks out of his frozen state. He slides down to lie on his side, facing opposite me and curling his legs up like a fetus. To sleep. For real now.
I guess it's indeed time for bed. The night has especially grown silent. No more crying from the families who lost their boys today. No more squeals of pain from Brad whose wounds—both the multiple scratches all over his body and the deep arrow slit on his right shoulder blade—were being treated. No more hysterical screams of 'Versorium' from Versorium. And tonight, as much as the next nights, no booming voice telling everybody to turn the lights off and conserve the fuel for the future.
It's even quieter here with just me and Johann. Everyone chooses to squeeze next to each other in the adjacent, abandoned houses, even if there's plenty of room here. Apparently, nobody wants to bunk with a telekinetic criminal who promised to redeem himself and help out but actually did nothing other than swoon. Nobody else, except the only person who was foolish enough to believe him.
I don't have the right to complain, but let me just say how it sucks that I'm stuck with a practical mute.
He has been this way since I woke up from my sudden loss of consciousness following my trance. Heck, he has been this way ever since I met him. Not sure if it's kind of his nature or he just don't like me very much.
Maybe, I'm just boring him. Maybe, I'm boring, period.
"Hey, man!" I call out, prodding him. Discourteous, I know, but what choice do I have? "Am I boring you?"
As I await his answer, I convince myself that it's not possible. I've always prided myself for being a good conversationalist. It's one of my charms. Anyone who's having any doubts can ask Ashley about it. Or Wendy, hopefully.
Johann shakes his head.
I sigh. Thank you for your honesty.
Crossing my legs on the floor and my arms across my chest, I soften my volume to mid-whisper. "So, what is it, then? You're simply not quite the talker?"
No response. Again.
Okay, this guy is slightly pissing me off. He's making such a chore out of extracting an answer from him, even more so in keeping a conversation.
Brad's clearly a much better company, I tell my brain. Even Benito.
"Then, go with either of them," Johann hisses, out of the blue.
Puzzled, I ask him, "I'm sorry, what?"
He breathes through his nose in disapproval.
I stir him again, shaking him this time. "Hey, what did you just say?"
He turns to face me. "Nothing. It's just that I can hear your thoughts."
"You're kidding, right? Didn't know you have any sense of humor."
"Well, you evidently wanted me to hear them, don't you?"
"Huh? You serious? How is that possible?"
"How is everything possible, really?" He sits up and crosses his arms as if mirroring me. "Your premonitions, your telekinesis, your levitation?"
My brows furrow and my mouth opens in I-don't-know-what emotion.
"Why don't you ask yourself the same question?" He leans back on the wall, the peeled-off, hardened wallpaper bending above him like some sort of canopy. "How can you possibly do all these things?"
I shrug. "I don't know."
"Exactly." He tilts his head and points an open palm to me. "We don't. We might never know. Hence, we can't really blame others for jumping into accusatory conclusions. Maybe, Alexander and Cora are right, and you're an Ante. Maybe, you're not."
I shoot daggers at him.
Obviously, I have never liked being associated—even in mere speculations—with these marauders. Who does, anyway?
Although it's a tad counterintuitive that I keep associating this Versorium guy with them, isn't it? I can't believe I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.
"Look," he says, before I can speak up, "we, humans, react like that: we either attack or reject the things we don't understand. Basic fight or flight instinct."
"Doesn't change the fact that it sucks most of the time, though. Being an enemy of the state is not cool, you know. Even if you're Superman—which I'm not." I bit my lip, punishing myself for having the lousiest reference. It's like I'm subtly confirming that I'm a secret alien like the man of steel himself. "Man, I wish I just don't have it. Seriously, why me?"
"There's gotta be a reason why we have these gifts."
"Wait," I utter, drawing the word out, as I pivot on my seat to completely face him. "If you're also having these visions, does that mean you can also do... some telekinetic shit?"
"No," he answers without hesitation, his cheekbones dropping and his lips straightening like this extensive gash across his neck. "I wish I could, but no."
"For a while there, I thought we might be related." I chuckle nervously. "Like we share the same good-for-nothing father, maybe?"
His face remains sullen.
"But how is it possible that you—"
"Just be thankful, okay? No point in asking these pointless questions."
"Well, lucky for you, they treat you as some hero."
"No, lucky you, because you can be an actual hero." His facial expression sours up even more. "You are proficient with weapons, you have the sight, and now, you discover you're telekinetic. You're magnanimously blessed, yet you're still whining like a four-year old with tantrums? What more could you possibly want?"
Woah.
What's wrong with this guy now?
"And what does that make us who can't even save our lives with a dagger, huh?" He pounds a thumb on his chest. "Answer me."
Knowing better not to fight fire with fire, I keep my mouth shut.
"That's right. Nothing." He stretches his arms out in exasperation. "We're nothing. Useless. Garbage. Utter shit. I can only dream up of one thing the council can utilize us for: as pawns to be placed in front of the ranks in order to prevent the main players from being killed first."
As a gesture of sympathy, I put a hand on his arms. "You're not—"
He shakes it off. "You know, I envy you." He shoves me by the shoulder, making me out-balanced. "Ever since we found you with half of your body buried in the debris of that building, I have envied you. Even before knowing what you can do, I knew that I'm eventually going to lose the hero status in this party."
Oh, wow.
I didn't expect this from him. I didn't expect he would have these insecurities about me. I didn't expect he'd have insecurities at all.
On second thought, I expected nothing from him, actually. He has always been such a complicated, ambiguous haze of a person to even try to assess.
Completely understanding what this is, I spring back up, not even taking a moment to think of retaliating.
"The second I touched you, I saw that you will be there in the end, going head to head with the Ante King." His regard drifted off through the open door, perusing the remnants of the blown-up automobiles still lined up along the road. "It's funny; I didn't even see myself there."
What? That's insane.
I would say he is making all this shit up, but I don't see any reason for him to. His bored expression, especially, doesn't look like it has got time for non-sense.
"That is why the president can't seem to let you go, even during times when the others have started to doubt that maybe I was wrong, that maybe my gift has failed me." He can't even bother to look at me as he delivers this monologue. "When you just won't wake up after months, when you ran away for no reason, when you should've been executed for nearly killing Gabriel. He stood by you. Always. Even going insofar as risking his own life."
Apparently, this is my turn to be speechless. I just don't know what to feel about these revelations he has been spilling like yesterday's news.
"He has always trusted that you are our best chance at defeating the Antes. That you will liberate us from this nightmare."
"We both know I cannot do it alone."
"Now, it seems like he's right. Like I'm right," he continues, deliberately ignoring me and what I have to say. "Who needs another shaman now, when you already have one who's both a warrior and a mage? Especially if that other shaman was unable to do something despite knowing what he knew and just allowed for his brothers to be slain like pigs."
"You and I, both, buddy. I have nobody to blame but myself for—"
"Oh, please don't. Just don't." His volume rises as he flashes a hand to my face. "Can I just have my moment, please? I'm done hearing your 'I'm a loser' crap. Your pity party's long over, buddy."
I gasp under my breath, shocked. No, dumbfounded.
"You know what? Never mind." He sinks back to lying position, his head resting on both arms, facing the obscure emptiness of the room. "Just wrap up your whining, so we can both get some sleep."
"I'm sorry, man, if that's how I'm making you feel." I lay my body down, facing the other direction. "I didn't mean it like that."
Johann makes no reply.
"I'm just trying to have a good chat with you. I feel like you're the only one in the Village I can't just seem to crack. I want to get to know you, to befriend you."
Still no reply.
I wait another few, uncomfortable seconds. A minute. Two.
Damn, I can't have another person loathing me. The evil trio, plenty of nameless Villagers and most of my high school classmates and non-classmates are enough haters to fuel a toxic lifetime. That's not even counting those who choose to not demonstrate their hatred to my face for some perverse reason (i.e. great pretenders like Sasha).
Before I could shut my eyes to force myself to doze off, the guy gives in, at last. "Sorry, I snapped. Just had a rough day."
"No, that's okay," I chime in, my voice a couple decibels lower than before. Its timbre is also gruffer, to the point of approaching Randy Savage's. "It's my fault, anyway. I didn't realize I was being a whiny bitch."
He snorts.
Thank the heavens, he's amused.
I shift to face him, the floorboards creaking with the slightest movements I make.
"Just do me a favor and stop bothering yourself with the nitty-gritty of your special abilities." He rolls over to lie on his back and twists his neck to look me in the eyes. "Also, promise me you'll stop thinking of them as some curse, because they're not. Others would kill to have them; I especially know a few."
I raise a hand in oath. "I promise."
"Good."
"So, are we cool now?"
"Yeah, we're cool."
"Awesome."
"No more stressing with the trivial things, okay? What we need to turn our focus on is how we can be able to harness these abilities to help us in this war."
"You mean, it's possible to control even this sight? To summon these visions at will? To choose a specific time in the future to take a peek at, like some magical database of archived footages? Are you able to do that somehow?"
He nods, displaying a lopsided grin. "Not absolutely, though."
"But does your nose bleed every time you do? Does it drain your energy?"
"I don't think so. No."
"How can—"
"I mean, I used to experience those things at the beginning, for sure," he explains, sitting back up, "but that was when I was just figuring my way around this ability. When I finally got the hang of it, exercising the act doesn't cause as much of a side-effect anymore. I still get bouts of dizziness from time to time but nothing too severe."
Although I feel terrible for having to drag him through my insomnia with this interrogation, I'm just so stoked to know these things; I can't wait.
Propping my head with my arm, I ask, "How did it stop? What did you do?"
"Nothing. It just did."
Scowling, I scratch my head.
"Maybe, in time, it will be easier for you too."
"Well, I can't wait for that time."
"Have patience, my friend."
"Maybe, if I practice more," I wonder aloud as I search the room for something lightweight to try to lift with my stare, "I'll overcome—"
He clutches my forearm. "Stop! Peyton's coming."
My eyes bug out, taking in more light than I thought possible, as the mention of the name jerks me away from concentration. "Wait, did you just spy on her right now with your advanced supersight?" I wrap a hand around my mouth, speaking through the spaces between my fingers with muffled words. "Don't tell me, you have x-ray vision as well. 'Cause that's dope—and maybe just a little unfair."
He slouches, before rubbing his creased brow and pursing his lips. "No, silly. I just heard footsteps, and I happen to recognize that voice calling your name."
"Oh." I jut my lip. "So, just elephant-ears, then?"
He clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.
I guffaw at his unmistakable annoyance. I pause, however, upon catching Peyton's ringing voice from outside the house.
"Okay, I'll leave you two." Johann leaps to his feet and dusts off his shirt and trousers. "Now's your chance to do what you have to do and say what you have to say."
Without a clue of what he's insinuating, I brush it off. "Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Why? You can stay, you know."
"Nah. You two could use some alone time. Plus, I need some—I'd say fresh air, but I'm afraid we don't have it anymore, so... just silence. I need some silence. You obviously can't give that to me here, can you?"
"Ow. Sorry, man."
"That's alright. Just fix it with her already."
"Will do!" I give him a wink. "And, uh, thank you, Johann... for everything."
"It's my pleasure," he replies, before walking out the door, "Logan."
The light in my eyes deadens.
How in the hell?