Chapter Text
A needless number of lamps bathed the muted interior of the therapist’s office in a soft, golden glow. The decor itself was humble, filled with neutral palettes and an arrangement of furniture that seemed to beckon, offering solace to those who sought it.
You didn’t. And now the lamps only served to further distract you.
You had counted them every time you had visited and taken careful note of their placement: from the arched lamp in the north-eastern corner of the room, right next to the door, the modest, modernized chandelier dangling from a spiral hook right above your head, the trio of ambient lamps placed in a neat row on the top shelf behind you, to the swing arm nearby the lounge chair next to the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the door, where your gaze briefly lingered. The blank white shades stopped two-thirds of the way down to the dark blue carpeted floor. From the office’s position on the seventh floor, the tight rows of the shades sat at just the precise angle for anyone indoors to be able to comfortably overlook the sprawling shopping streets below without fear of being identified from the nearest buildings around.
Not a terrible place for overwatch. Though, I’d skip the lightworks. Whoever designed that chandelier is guilty of war crimes.
Your jaw muscle twitched. But the smile died long before it could reach your lips. Devoured in a gaping hole in your sternum that somehow wasn’t visible to anyone else but you. Whatever surfaced to your features was no more than its death throes. It was enough of a reaction, however. You could tell from the way that the man who sat opposite of you, behind the desk, scribbled something on a notepad that was strategically placed on a writing slope. Iron spread throughout your veins once more as you braced yourself for the question, the same question, that always arose at a certain point of time during the meeting. You had been able to predict it through the wall clock that had once crowned the door. It had been removed by your third session, but by then, you had memorized the number of heartbeats it took before he finally spoke outside the initial greeting with which he started each session.
“I’m glad you could make it today. Have you considered what I said the last time we met?” And the time before that. And the time long before that.
“No, sir,” you said curtly. “Sorry, I’ve been too busy. With... life.” And shit, you added inwardly.
“Of course. There’s no need to apologize. And please, there’s no need to address me as ‘sir’. This country owes you far too much for that.”
He gave you a mellow smile. You scrutinized the man through narrowed eyes. Dr. Adrian Sinclair was unusually young for a therapist and the personification of a perfect equilibrium of calm. The two of you had made that almost exact exchange for six months now, yet he never appeared impatient, like your previous therapist, or forlorn, like the one before that. His clear blue eyes held a weight of gentle reassurance behind his square glasses, and his lean shoulders lay flush against the back of his swivel chair, completely at ease. He always appeared the same way as well, sporting his chestnut hair in a neat, polished side part and discreet workwear in inoffensive colors that never held onto a wrinkle no matter the time of year. His voice was naturally quiet and slow, and he spoke fluently, without any lingual fluctuations from regional influences. He could be from anywhere in the country. Or from nowhere at all. You still hadn’t quite decided if he, or anything else for that matter, was real. If the world you encountered every day wasn’t just a sloppy stitchwork of your scattered mind’s imagination. Parts of you still believed you had never left. Believed the hole had swallowed you and broken you completely.
Believed you had mercifully died and never gotten out of that place to witness what had happened to them.
“How’s work?” he asked gently.
“The usual, sir,” you replied almost before he finished speaking.
Dr. Sinclair nodded slowly as he etched down something else on his notepad. You glared at him. The young psychiatrist was unreadable to you. You did not like that. But you knew that it was intentional. No matter what you were told, be it from him or your main physician who oversaw all your different treatments. You harbored suspicions that Dr. Sinclair wasn’t even a doctor, but a CIA agent placed on you for extra surveillance. Like it wasn’t enough that you had to appear each month for them to measure your readings, which hadn’t changed since... then. Like you didn’t know that the kindly elderly lady living in the apartment across from you was part of the team that supervised you twenty-four-seven. Or the couple and old man who followed you whenever you strayed from your usual, everyday route to and back from the convenience store you had found employment at nine months ago, only to disappear out of sight as soon as you reached church or the cemetery. Side trips you only indulged in occasionally, when the growing, creaking cavity in your chest clawed at you from the inside and out. Not that these places alleviated the agony. They only lent you a moment of peace of mind. A flickering candlelight in a void expanse.
The dark, hungering hollow within never strayed far. Just like the coarse feeling of wet, cold concrete all around you, trapping you in. And the smell of blood and urine and freshly fallen snow. The sounds of their voices, screaming, groaning, crying; and your heartbeats, which you counted one after another, just like the metal bars above you, willing the time to go faster so that you could finally die.
“Is there something that you would like to bring up?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Anything at all? Maybe discuss a new movie that you’ve watched? Or a book you’ve read?”
You shook your head. Dr. Sinclair smiled ruefully and put his pen down.
“I understand that the transition from the rehabilitation facilities to open treatment is difficult,” he said. “And I know you aren’t too fond of this question, but I am obliged to offer you it regardless: are you sure you would not rather continue with a more supportive structure on site?”
You stiffened against the plush armchair. As the fabric gave underneath your pressure, a waft of lavender filled your nostrils. A deliberate touch to create an atmosphere of tranquility, no doubt. Perhaps a pouch of the dried herb had been hidden between the materials just before you arrived. It would be the latest change, the latest tweak to the room through which Dr. Sinclair attempted to breach your thoughts.
“No,” you replied. “Sir.”
“This might not be what you had in mind when you chose to leave the rehabilitation center. But these meetings are meant to provide a safe space. A place where you can express whatever you’re feeling, instead of bottling everything inside. A way for you to deal with the situation, instead of avoiding it.”
Your attention shifted, tracing a path from the handful of degrees adorning the wall to the delicate pink orchid on the left side of the doctor’s desk. A sense of irony tugged at you; here you were, being told to face the demons that harrowed your every waking moment while surrounded by symbols of cultivated calm. Demons that only disappeared when you ingested colorful pills that induced you with a dreamless sleep but rendered you exhausted and irritable the morning after. Until you took the pills that ended those side effects, and the inhibiting ones after that, before the entire cycle started all over again.
“I know, sir,” you said finally. “I just don’t have anything to say.”
“Nothing?” he tried carefully.
You pursed your lips. “Nothing.”
“Then perhaps, may I ask you a few questions?”
You wrestled with the urge to get up and leave. The lingering skepticism you couldn’t help but feel concerning your treatment climbed up your throat and transformed into anger, into frustration, a constant reminder that you had dragged yourself there against your will once more. You would have to do the same next week, and the week after that. And for what? It was all pointless, all a waste of time and energy.
“Well?” he prodded when it was clear that you weren’t going to answer him.
“How would you like me to reply, sir?”
“Whatever it is you feel like saying. You believe that our meetings are useless, but I assure you—talking, even about the most innocuous, simple things, can help. Everything starts somewhere.”
Your response was a noncommittal scoff, a silent but unconvinced acknowledgment of his words. Your gaze flickered to an empty spot in the bookcase behind him, where a framed photograph once had been placed. Dr. Sinclair had removed it already before your second session, but you wondered where he kept it now. The captured memory of another lifetime, of his life—smiling happily in the embrace of his family on a sunlit porch. The image taunted you. You had grown secretly resentful of the doctor ever since.
Dr. Sinclair exhaled softly, his breath escaping in a patient sigh. “Let’s go over why you are here. What led you to seek professional counsel?”
Your shoulders tensed, a reflex to the vulnerability of the question. The walls you had erected around your mind felt like they were closing in, threatening to suffocate you with unwelcome recollections. You offered a shrug, a gesture that fell short of masking the complex emotions churning beneath the surface of your carefully curated guise. “You know why.”
“Well, yes. But I would like to hear it from you.”
“They say I need therapy to ‘reintegrate’ into normal life,” you clipped, your voice edged with a bitterness you did not care to hide. “As if talking about what I’ve been through will magically erase everything.” As if you’re real, doctor, and not just a construct of my mind, you thought grimly. But it’s fine. Even if you are real, I will just break you just like I did the other shrinks and kooks. “Or change who I am and what I can do.”
“What you used to be able to do,” he corrected.
“As you say,” you said icily.
Dr. Sinclair nodded as if you had confessed something, his expression one of understanding rather than judgment. “Well, I can tell you that this is not about erasing anything. Therapy is the first step toward finding ways to carry the weight of those experiences.”
“Weight, huh?” Your palms rubbed restlessly up and down the stitching of the armchair. “More like a goddamn anchor that’s dragging me down. But how would you know.”
Dr. Sinclair’s fingers wrapped around the pen once more as he moved to jot down something. You wondered if he wanted to prescribe you more pharmaceuticals. A preferable outcome, though something about the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in genuine concern brought you doubt. You wondered briefly if you had given something away, something that you weren’t supposed to have relinquished. You peered around the room, scanning for any type of weapon you could use to dispatch the doctor before he could send a message to—
“What’s the primary emotion that’s eating at you? Guilt? Or remorse? Perhaps even shame?”
You returned your focus to the doctor wordlessly. He met your glower gravely, but the sympathy in his eyes was laid bare. Suddenly, the black ballpen in his grip seemed like the perfect tool for your will. Adrenaline spiked your blood. Your legs tensed, ready for you to pounce and overwhelm Dr. Sinclair. But as soon as you shifted in your seat, the yet unfamiliar weight of a pendant necklace grazed the sensitive skin between your breasts. You blinked, halfway through planning your escape route already. Then you filed away the burning urge into the far crevices of your mind.
Someone knocked on the door. If Dr. Sinclair realized how closely he had been to have a pen through his windpipe, he did not show it. His voice remained steady and even as he spoke. “One minute.”
Dr. Sinclair rose from his chair. He extended a hand toward you over the desk and issued a warm smile. “Thank you for sharing today. I look forward to our next session.”
You hesitated before rising to accept his outstretched hand. Dr. Sinclair’s palms were surprisingly calloused for being a glorified pharmacist in charge of your next dosage. “Yeah, we’ll see,” you said.
The silhouette of the Washington Monument blurred against the fading sunlight. You struggled with the busted zipper of your hoodie, before giving up and yielding to the January winds, which were harsh enough to whip flesh from bone. Winter had been brutal. With the most recent influx in the economy, it wouldn’t be long before the number of people huddling in the streets, burning whatever they could, doubled. Those who survived the initial exposure to the cruelty of the system would then inevitably die out from the cold or drugs or both, only for the cycle to repeat the next year, and the year after that.
The world is founded upon cycles. Combined, they form a machine, a tapestry of ever-repeating purgatory, grinding out the most vulnerable—and the most defiant.
You reached the dilapidating apartment complex that had made your home ever since you were discharged from rehab a year back. In the corner of your eye, you observed the couple who had tracked you from work in your peripheral vision. They entered a car further down the street and drove away, rounding the corner. You knew that it was a feigning act. Or that the old lady had gotten you in her sights. A presumption that proved correct. As soon as you stepped inside the building, you spotted her halfway down the stairs, pretending that she had a bad hip and an even worse knee, and struggled to carry her trash out. You offered her a polite greeting and a smile that never reached your eyes while you squeezed past her up the steps.
Once you reached the third floor, you knew that something was off. The rancid stench of old piss and spilled alcohol doused the dull orange wallpapers and smudged floors of the hallway as per usual. But the air was tense. You felt it clinging to your skin like perspiration. Like there was a horrific storm oncoming.
You tightened the fist holding onto the plastic bag of processed foods you had snuck out after the end of your shift. It was a mixed bag of things ranging from sandwiches to chocolate. All useless in a fight. But there was one item you had hesitated to take, only because you had read countless of times that you weren’t supposed to mix it with your medicine.
A bottle of beer.
You pretended to rummage through the bag for your keys as you approached your door. Once you reached it, you unpacked some of the bag’s contents and placed them on the floor right next to the threshold. The glass bottle, you tucked underneath your armpit. You continued your charade of looking for your keys before you theatrically smacked yourself on the forehead and produced your keys from the front pocket of your jeans. They were the same pair you had gotten when you met the social worker who dealt with your citizenship after being a paperless, non-existent entity within the US military for over twenty-four years.
While you acted like you were fumbling with the keys, you peered at the doorframe through the corner of your eyes. Your markers, whose positions you swapped every day, sat intact. But that didn’t mean that someone hadn’t tried to tamper with your door. Or hadn’t breached your apartment from another entry point.
A reasonable voice told you that you were paranoid. How many times had you not felt this exact way, only to discover that your sanity was about as reliable as a tent in a hurricane? You silenced that voice and unlocked the door, though not before you had gotten a good hold of the bottleneck. A precious second extended into another, then a third before the door fully swung open on its hinges. You flicked the light switch on.
The dingy two-room apartment was just as messy as you had left it that morning, before heading out for your appointment with Dr. Sinclair. No sign of intruders.
You relaxed and dropped your keys on the end table next to the door. Kicking aside piles of unwashed clothes and trash and a broken, second-hand vacuum cleaner you had told yourself you would breathe life back into when you had a moment to spare, you headed for the galley kitchen, in dire need of something warm to drink. After putting some water to boil in a saucepan that wasn’t unwashed, you scoured through the cupboards for something to flavor the water with.
That’s when you noticed it. A black dot, barely discernible against a dark wet spot on the faded brown wallpaper. It moved; it was a fly.
There hadn’t been any insects in your apartment that morning. You had made sure of it.
Elbow deep inside the cupboard, your fingers curled around the plastic container of instant coffee before you could think. You whirled around with the makeshift weapon, just as a man stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. His face and hands were hidden underneath a balaclava and plastic gloves respectively, and though well-built, he was shorter than you. Those details were the only things you managed to register before survival instincts kicked in. The present, conscientious part of you faded. Something like terror and cruelty assumed order.
The water was nowhere near boiling temperature, but you wanted the saucepan more than the packaging for the instant coffee as a weapon. You unscrewed the lid and tossed it, then the rest of the packaging. The intruder dodged the lid, but the powder clung to him like dust, particularly his attempts of disguise. He coughed violently and tried to rub the coffee out of his eyes, but still charged for you, flailing blindly with one arm. You swiftly slid past him and grabbed the saucepan, swinging it at him with all your strength. The weight of the water made you misjudge the timing of the trajectory, however. Instead of hitting his head, which would have knocked him out for certain, you clipped him across his ear and jaw, making him stagger sideways into the counters opposite you. He howled in pain and grabbed the side of his face where you had struck true, cursing.
You didn’t stick around to check on him. More footsteps shuffled in the apartment. You looked around for something, anything to defend yourself with, but your best chance of survival was still the beer bottle. Just as you grasped it by the neck, another trespasser appeared from the other end of the kitchen, which connected to your bedroom. A woman, taller than you by a few inches, also disguised in a balaclava and gloves. Her brown eyes widened as she spotted you and her companion, and her arms drew back in a familiar motion, reaching for a hidden gun in the back of her jeans. You had no time to reconsider or hide; you hurled the bottle at her face. And missed. The glass shattered on impact with the doorway, sending a spray of glass and cold alcohol in all directions. Not your primary goal with the maneuver, but it bought you a couple of seconds since the woman had taken cover. She would need to reposition before firing. Those seconds were all you needed.
In one motion, you scooped out the grimy kitchen knife you had left to soak among the dirty dishes in the half-filled sink the evening before returning your attention to the first interloper. He tried to fight you off, swinging wildly with his fists. Only one squinted eye was open. One fist almost hit you across the temple, but you craned your neck out of reach at just the last possible instant. His attempt exposed his side, and you seized the opportunity to pummel the side of his ribs as hard as you could with the blunt end of the knife. He gasped and dropped to a knee. You didn’t relent. You stomped on his shin with all the strength you could muster, eliciting another pained outcry, then slithered around him. You pressed against his back in the next breath, the knife blade drawn sharp against his bobbing Adam’s apple. Your other hand snaked down his spine until you reached the concealed gun holster in the waistband of his denim. He was stronger than you by far, you had felt it from the force of his punches, but this close, you could cut his throat before he so much as coughed, and then use his body as a shield if it came to a shootout with his partner. Judging from his petrified stance, he knew it too.
“Drop the knife.”
The woman aimed a Glock 19 with a silencer barrel your way. Her posture revealed a military background, and judging by her New England dialect, she was not far from home. The slight tremble in her voice proved that she wasn’t used to a situation where a life dangled on a bare thread. “Now.”
You held a tight angle. From her point of view, she would need to be a tremendous gunshot to strike you without injuring her partner. “I don’t think so,” you gritted out through your teeth. “Who the fuck are you two? Who sent you?”
When the woman hesitated, you veered the kitchen knife half an inch down the man’s stubble. Blood spilled over the edge. Not enough to mortally wound, but plenty enough for time to become of the essence.
“Answer me!” you demanded. “Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck are you trying to kill me?”
“They’re not trying to kill you.”
A third person appeared from the same end of the galley kitchen which your male assailant had used. You had feared that there were more intruders in your apartment, but you had desperately hoped that wasn’t the case. Strangely, this second woman was neither disguised nor armed, and she raised her hands over her head when you tried to shuffle your hostage into a position that would render you the most impervious to a sudden gunshot. She wore simple civilian clothes and appeared to be in her early forties with shoulder-length brown hair tied in a low ponytail. Her age and hair betrayed her occupation as one indoors, but she had steady blue eyes that met yours without even a hint of trepidation.
“My name’s Kate Laswell,” she said slowly. “These are my colleagues, agents Huang and Ramirez.”
She brought your attention to her left hand with a flick of her wrists. A badge. The laminated CIA logo flashed against the fluorescent lamps in the ceiling.
“Like that matters,” you hissed. “Anything can be fabricated these days. Now, unless you want one of your ‘agents’ bleeding out on the floor like a pig—”
“Saint.”
Your blood froze in your veins. You glared at the woman whose name supposedly was Kate Laswell. Her jaw tightened. “I knew him. We were colleagues. Friends. He told me that I could always trust you.”
“Lies,” you seethed through your teeth. “He never told me about you. And he was part of the Cerberus Project, just like the rest of us freaks. I remember the way we were treated—like dogs on a leash. Like wild animals. How dare you say that you knew him on a personal level?”
When your temper rose, a flicker of uncertainty and dread crossed the blue-eyed woman’s features. Her center mass settled, as if she prepared to skitter back, but her gaze never wavered. In that second, you realized that she knew about you. Or perhaps more accurately, she knew about people like you. She had dealt with others possessing your particular skills more than once.
Maybe she isn’t lying. Or maybe this is just another scenario conjured up in my broken mind.
“Saint was different,” she replied in a composed tone. “You know that. Or you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”
“And you would have signaled for your sniper to shoot me already if you hadn’t known that I’m no longer ‘gifted’.”
If your comment startled her, she did not show. Rather, she appeared mildly bemused and not entirely unimpressed.
“When did you notice him?” she asked.
“Not early enough,” you grunted. “So, why is my brain still contained inside my skull?”
“I want to offer you a job.”
You chuckled humorlessly, but Laswell remained unfazed. You just waited, smiling with too many teeth, thinking she might disappear just like your other hallucinations. Between one blink of the eye and the next. But she didn’t.
You frowned as the reality of the situation settled in. Your smile died. “You didn’t need to go through this entire spectacle just for that. Why not call?”
“Would you have answered?”
“Not by a long shot. But that wouldn’t have stopped someone from the agency. Was this a stress test?”
“Correct. We never meant to inflict any real harm.”
You withdrew from the man, whose hands immediately flew up to clutch the shallow gash across his throat. He tore off his balaclava and crawled away. You kept his gun trained on him. Just in case.
“I’m retired,” you said, glancing from one end of the galley kitchen to the next. You were cornered, but in the worst-case scenario, if they were lying or you were in a dream you couldn’t wake from, you’d at least get to finish off one of the intruders before they pelleted you with bullets. “Honorably discharged. I’m supposed to live a normal life with whatever handouts the US government deigns to give me.”
Bitterness colored your words. You gripped the knife and gun until your knuckles drained of blood. “And we all made a promise in the squad. If anyone of us got out of the system and managed to free ourselves—we’d stay that way. No matter what.”
“An admirable vow. But the world could still use a hound.”
You narrowed your eyes at the name. “My answer is no.”
“Saint rarely sent word.” Laswell lowered her hands slowly to her sides. Not toward a gun—she was unarmed so far as you saw—but toward a tightly snapped bundle of envelopes, tied together with a bent metal clip. “He sent maybe a dozen throughout the years. He wasn’t too keen on technology, as you knew.”
A chill ran down the nape of your neck. That was something that hadn’t been known even among the squad members. “Who were you to him?” you inquired sharply.
“A friend. On that I assure you. There was never anything more.”
Even to your fragile state of mind, Laswell seemed honest at that. You cleared your throat, finding it gradually difficult to breathe in the filth that surrounded you and filled the entire apartment.
“How?” When she hesitated, you pulled back the slide of the gun. It was a motion that came as easy and automatic as breathing, even though you still grasped the knife in your other hand. “I’m not gonna count.”
“I worked as the Hellhounds’ liaison with the agency,” she said. “Saint and I built a friendly rapport from that. This is classified information,” she added, glancing at the other two agents. “None of this may ever leave this room.”
They muttered affirmatives. Neither had so much as glanced in any other direction than yours.
“Saint preferred his post-mission reports like this.”
Laswell placed the stack of envelopes gently on the kitchen table. You noticed then that none of them adorned a postage stamp. It triggered an old, buried memory you strangled with all your mental strength, but confirmed the truth behind Laswell’s statement. You remembered the late evenings, how you used to try and stay up to help, only to fall asleep surrounded by his scent. His scent...
“Did you know he attributed your squad’s spotless record to you?”
“My powers are gone,” you said, scowling. “I couldn’t make a lightbulb flicker.”
“He never mentioned it was because of your ESP ranking. He said your tactical mind was without parallel. Second only to your righteousness.”
A chortle heaved from your constricted lungs. “Bullshit. Get the fuck out of my place before I continue what I started.”
“Is this really what you want to do for the rest of your life?” Furrows creased Laswell’s forehead, but to her credit, her blue eyes remained stony despite your threats. “There’s something big. Something that might very well plunge our modern society into chaos. We need everyone man or woman capable of stopping this—especially someone as narrowly specialized as you. Think about it.”
You opened your mouth to snarl a venomous reply. But her argument resonated far too deeply within your bones for you to disregard it. You could lie to Dr. Sinclair, tell him that everything was fine, that the monotone roller coaster of civilian life was something that you had sought your entire life. But you couldn’t lie to yourself. Not about this. Not when something stirred in the hollow of your heart for the first time since you woke up in a foreign hospital room, alone forever and more.
“Fine.”
Laswell’s eyebrows arched high. “You accept?”
You swallowed. “I do. I’d invite you and offer some coffee while you explained the whole thing—” you gestured nonchalantly at the male agent, who fixed you with a hateful stare, “—but seems neither is possible.”
“No time for that.” She took off the backpack she had worn and placed it on the kitchen table. She stored the bundle of letters in one of the front pockets. “There’s a plane waiting.”
“You’re leaving?” you asked, eyes widening. “Already?”
“We are. You’re coming with us.”
“I can’t just leave without anything,” you said, placing both gun and knife on the countertop closest to you. You wiped the hand which had held the knife on a naked paper roll but the smell of food waste lingered.
“Bag’s already packed,” replied Laswell, pointedly shaking the backpack. “I’ve relieved you of your lease of this place too.”
You frowned. “How long did you say this was going to take again?”
“I didn’t. Here.”
Laswell tossed you the backpack. It took all of your willpower not to reach for the envelopes and tear them open. Instead, you peered inside. Among the familiar few articles of clothing in your wardrobe that didn’t have holes or permanent stains, you found nestled a nearly bursting folder and, to your pleasant surprise, a brand-new laptop. You could practically smell the factory packaging on the smooth metal surface.
“You’ll have four hours to get acquainted with the details, plan out a strategy, and prepare a briefing.”
“Where are we headed?” you asked stiffly. "Who else is in on this?"
Laswell nodded toward the other female agent, who begrudgingly stowed her gun away and approached her colleague, helping him up. She then held up five fingers toward the window, presumably a gesture to call off the sniper, before heading out of the kitchen.
“I’ll explain on the way. How familiar are you with a unit named Task Force 141?”