Tigress escorts me out of Elliot’s office while Dillon and Tusks stay behind. Above the door, there’s a number: 1006. I memorize it. To the right, there’s a secretary’s desk with file organizers and a phone with a hundred buttons. The area is carpeted, clean smelling and professional-looking. Corporate America in all its glory.
I went through this area before, but I didn’t have a chance to notice much given my anxiety at making Doctor Sting’s acquaintance. I wonder where the hell I am. I haven’t seen the place from the outside. Both times I came in while I was passed out, and the one time I went out, I was in the back of that army truck. It’s a tall building. I know that much. The elevator has thirty-two buttons: thirty-one regular floors plus a service one. I shudder. I’ll kill myself before I go back down there. It’s a promise.
“There are empty beds on my floor,” Lyra says, her French accent clipped and thicker than before.
Normally, I would simply nod, but I have to keep the charade. Any amount of suspicion could prove disastrous. “A bed. Yes, a bed! Don’t remember the last time I saw one of those. I wanna sleep sleep sleep.” Not that I really deserve to sleep, not when others are fighting or dead because of me.
We come to the elevator. It’s guarded by the same two squat, barrel-sized men I saw on my previous visit. They look like they’re either trying to morph into brown bears or dwarfs, I can’t decide—twin dwarfs, that’s my best bet, judging by the matching long beards and tomato-shaped noses. They both growl like guard dogs as we walk up. Lyra ignores them. I do the same.
“Well,” she says, “sleep while you can, before Elliot decides what to do with you.” Her strange green eyes watch the elevator numbers go up. Elliot’s office is on the tenth floor. I take a mental note of that as well. The elevator opens and we go in.
“What d’you think they’ll do?” I ask, trying not to come up with any scenarios.
The doors slide shut and Lyra presses a button.
“They’ll let me go after James. Right? Right?!” I add. “’Cause I wanna catch me some traitors, make them pay.”
Her gaze meets mine. We’re the same height, so we see eye to eye. Her small, furred breasts move up and down. We’re so close I hear her slow exhales. The elevator dings and the doors open on the sixth floor.
“What exactly did they do to you?” she asks before we step out into a small lobby area. “They didn’t tell us much. They never do.” Her last words sound bitter. Another disgruntled party in the ranks?
As we walk down a windowless, long corridor, I tell her about Symbiots and how they manage to keep the agents prisoner while “taking advantage of us”. I tell her about meditation and how it’s the most horrible type of torture. I tell her how I’ll make IgNiTe and every one of its members pay for all that pain and misery. It’s no secret anymore. Tusks knows. I’m sure it will get around. All thanks to me.
“I had no idea that was possible,” Lyra says, her eye as rounds as nickels.
“Better believe it.”
“Well, you might feel safe here, but don’t get too comfortable.”
I almost laugh. I’m as safe as a guest at one of those parties at Elliot’s house.
“Where’s everyone?” I ask.
“Sleeping,” Lyra says. “It’s 2 A.M.”
“Oh.”
She guides me through a set of metal doors. “Young Eklyptors are protected at least until they are able to develop a few useful adaptations. That’s if you make it that long.”
“Humans are useless like that.” I roll my eyes like a pro. “But they’re in their place now. Yep, they are. Shouldn’t have been in control so long. Puny bastards! Brains aren’t everything to stay on top. I’ll show ’em some brains and then some. Might just grow me a set of sharp claws to shred their tender, little throats.” I make slashing sounds by pushing air through my teeth.
Lyra grimaces in my direction and I wonder if I’ve gone overboard with my act. But when she says, “I’d rather not even touch them. They disgust me!” I realize she’s just as fastidious as any feline.
“Voilà,” she whispers, putting a finger to her lips to indicate silence.
I follow her gaze and blink a few times to adjust to the dim light. After a moment, an expansive area that seems to be as big as a basketball court takes shape. There are beds lining the walls on both sides.
Lyra walks forward as silent as a cat—which she almost is. I follow her, surveying the setup which makes me think of army barracks, except modern and better equipped. The bed linens are gray, just like the walls. The beds themselves are of decent size with thick mattresses that rest on top of wooden frames with built-in drawers underneath. Each bed is sandwiched between a dresser and a small desk. And, of all things, the desks have computers. I try not to salivate.
I count fifteen beds on each side, all occupied by lumps that, for the most part, look human. However, a few drastically different lumps under the sheets unsettle me, making me think of Komodo dragons or larger-than-life horned beetles. Maybe unicorns, but I doubt it.
I wonder how long these people have been here. Did they just move in? Or were they here long before The Takeover? From the looks of it, Elliot makes sure his faction members are comfortable. Maybe that helps with retention factors? He might rank as a leader in the buzz-o-meter, but rank doesn’t seem to guarantee loyalty or respect, not judging by Tusks’s attitude when the attack on The Tank didn’t please.
Still shocked by the fact that my head is not buzzing, I wonder if that hellish side effect is gone for good and if that’s an advantage or disadvantage. I’m too tired to ponder that right now, though, so I push the question aside for the moment.
We reach the end of the room. I run a hand through my hair. “Where do I crash?” I whisper, suddenly feeling the fatigue deep in my bones.
“That one is empty.” She points to the very last one on the left. “This is mine.” She walks to the bed next to mine, sits and begins to unlace her tall boots. “I will take you to get clothes tomorrow. Sleep in those now.”
With hope for rest so close in sight, my body finally becomes unhinged. My shoulders slump. My legs go limp—my very insides seem to collapse. I don’t care if my clothes smell and look as if I’ve been inside a Dumpster. I stagger forward and fall on the mattress face first. The pillowcase smells fresh, much better than the one at the fleabag motel where Aydan found me.
Aydan.
He must have gotten away. I keep thinking he did, keep wishing he fried those meatheads to a crisp. I wish I could call him to make sure, but I never knew his phone number. Not like I have my cell with me, anyway. It’s in my backpack together with my laptop in the rear seat of his Jetta.
My heavy eyelids open and close in slow motion. I glance at the computer monitor on the narrow desk next to my bed. Ideas swim through my head, but they’re foggy and I can’t get a hold of them.
“You stay in the barracks,” Lyra says from very far away.
“Count on it,” I mumble, willing sleep to take me. I’m exhausted enough it shouldn’t be hard to simply pass out, but my mind gets busy imagining the creatures that lie on the many beds in the room.
God, I shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be my life. I should be home, worrying about homework, learning something useful from a father who never died, arguing with my mother about the holes in my jeans, or on the phone with my boyfriend planning our next date.
My chest clamps tight. I fight the tears that seem to be at the ready for the moments when I can’t help but think of Xave. I curl up into a ball and push aside the memory of his pale face and empty eyes. I will not remember him that way. His hazel eyes could express so many emotions, so I think of him smiling, of his fingers brushing my cheek, of the first time we kissed.
Loneliness engulfs me. My short happy past can’t fight this horrible present.
The future doesn’t look much better.