Full physicals from Dr. Seward seemed to be the standard greeting for new Rangers. He was waiting for us on the roof of the Base when we landed, and his team whisked Angela’s body and Ethan off to the Medical Center. During the flight, my state of nausea doubled. It had stayed in check while we were airborne, but as soon as my feet touched solid ground, my stomach twisted. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and concentrated on that pain as I followed Gage off the roof. I wanted to lie down and curl into a ball until the queasiness went away.
“I’m sure Dr. Seward will want a full report as soon as he’s done poking and prodding Ethan,” he said once we were in the elevator.
“No doubt,” I said between clenched teeth. I leaned against the wall, concerned by the sudden lavender haze that tinged the corners of my vision. Just like when I overloaded fighting Specter. Not good.
“Teresa, are you okay?” He was staring at me.
I pasted on a fake smile. “Just a little overwhelmed. Long day, and a lot of bad news.”
Yeah, I bet he did.
The elevator stopped on ground level, and we stepped out into the lobby.
“Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” he asked.
The offer was endearing, but no. If I just lay down for a while, I was certain I’d feel better. It was a powers hiccup, nothing serious. Mostly I wanted to get back to my room without vomiting. That weakness was reserved for me and no one else.
“Actually, I’m kind of hungry,” I said, and hated that I was lying to him. “Tell you what, why don’t you run ahead and make sure the kitchen is cooking something? I’m going to stop by the ladies’ room. There has to be one down here.”
He smiled. “Are you ever not hungry?”
Right now, very much not hungry. If he scanned carefully for my heart rate, he’d know I was lying. I grinned back. “Call it a job hazard. Now go, I’ll catch up.”
“I’ll save you a seat.”
I waited until he passed through the outer doors, leaving me alone, and I then collapsed to my knees, arms tight around my middle. Chills and shivers sent goose flesh crawling across my neck and back. A strong shudder tore along my spine and sent cramps into my midsection. The lavender haze turned the green rug a strange shade of brown. I closed my eyes.
“Help me,” I whispered.
If I couldn’t get a handle on this, Dr. Seward would strap me back into a hospital bed, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be an experiment, tested and examined until they found their elusive answers to my problem. Crippling cramps and purple vision were pretty damned big problems, and meant days—if not weeks—of testing. I didn’t have that kind of time, not with five dead Rangers and a homicidal Bane on the loose.
I forced my eyes open; the world had gone purple, like someone had taped a sheet of colored plastic over my vision. Another cramp seized my guts, and I swallowed hard. On my left, a small sign indicated locker rooms down the hall. I took a deep breath, launched out of my kneeling position, and bolted. I overshot the bathroom door and almost crashed into a wall as I turned around.
Ignoring the fact that it was the men’s room, I shoved the door open, ran into the nearest stall, and vomited into the toilet. It didn’t take long to empty what little was in my stomach. Mostly water and grit particles (probably that sand I had swallowed), all colored purple like the rest of my world.
The pressure in my abdomen decreased without going away completely. I spat again, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of bile, and pushed the manual button to flush. I pulled up on shaky legs to the tune of water swirling and stumbled over to one of the sinks. After a few mouthfuls of tap water to clean out that horrid taste, I hazarded a look at myself in the mirror.
My pupils were dilated, but I couldn’t judge any other changes with my eyes acting so strangely. Now I knew how Renee felt when she looked in the mirror and saw blue skin and wished it had been ivory.
“It figures,” I said to my reflection. “Not only did you possibly inherit your grandmother’s powers, but now it looks like you’re allergic to them. Bravo.”
The cramping subsided enough to convince me that I wouldn’t internally combust during dinner. I washed my hands, checked my hair for any residual barf, and left the safety of the men’s room, praying for the strength to get through the day.
Eating food that looked the wrong color—on top of having an upset stomach—made dinner an exercise in durability and stamina. The two-person kitchen staff surprised me with a selection of roast beef, parslied potatoes, and steamed carrots, and I surprised Gage by taking only a small helping. I made a joke about watching my figure and being hungry again in an hour. He didn’t push, and I appreciated that.
He did, however, watch me like a hawk as we ate. I tried to ignore the concerned glances and keep up idle banter. We hadn’t heard from the other group in almost two hours, and that elephant stalked the room and dulled conversation.
The cafeteria sparkled in a way that the rest of the building did not. Tiled floors were freshly mopped, each homey wooden table wiped down and waxed. The chairs were wood, with upholstered seats (the exact color I’d have to figure out later), and quite comfortable. We were the only people in a room large enough to hold two hundred.
Gage pushed half-eaten roast beef around his plate and asked, “Is this how you usually spend your Saturday evenings?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “I used to slave away at three different menial, dead-end jobs to pay my rent and buy food, because most good employers have a problem hiring convicted felons, so I blew off my steam any night I had a few free hours. I’d find a nice, dirty dive bar within walking distance of my place, hustle drinks from losers I wouldn’t let touch me with a three-meter pole, dance away my frustrations, and then go home and sleep it off.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is, especially in heels.”
His left eye twitched with … what? Annoyance? I almost added to my statement, wanting to assure him that I hadn’t slept with any of my dancing partners, only I had no need to defend my (lack of) sex life.
“So what about you?” I asked. “How do you normally spend your Saturday nights?”
“Saturday was movie night,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Since the only open cinema was in the city, it was a once-a-week trek. Sometimes I’d go with a buddy from work, sometimes I’d have a date. Usually I went alone. Didn’t matter much what was playing or who was in it.”
He mentioned work again. I didn’t have the energy to pursue the opening, especially if he pulled his standard deflection. “I can’t imagine you had a lot of film options, with there only being four movie studios left in Vancouver.”
A few years before the War even began, serious inflation and a failing economy had already forced the consolidation of several major studios. One year into the fighting, a showdown between a fire-starter Bane named Blaze and a water-manipulator named Ariel led to the devastation of everything south of I-10, all the way to Anaheim. The remains of a theme park that had been shut down a decade ago were featured heavily on the newscasts that week.
Smaller battles in Burbank and Van Nuys added to the ruination of a once-sprawling metropolis. Residents fled as neighborhoods were shut down and evacuated. It was the first major city to fall during the five-year conflict.
In a last-ditch effort to save themselves, the final three studios relocated to Canada. The money went with it, leaving the rest of Hollywood a virtual ghost town. With its main sources of income gone, L.A. struggled hardest to recover during the postwar years. The folks left behind had rebuilt small communities of services, businesses, unremarkable restaurants, and bars. It would never be what it was during the Corps’ heyday.
“People want interactive entertainment,” Gage said, “not moving pictures in two dimensions. It’s a shame, really, because some of the films from a hundred years ago are really quite good.”
“I admit, I am not a fan,” I replied. “You’ll have to introduce me some time.”
“I’d like that.”
The purple potatoes on my plate looked less and less appetizing the longer I stared at them. Movement caught my eye, just over Gage’s right shoulder. Someone was standing near the far wall, by the door. Even from a distance of twenty feet, the woman’s eyes flashed brightly, the only part of her that wasn’t dulled, almost opaque. That was silly, though—people weren’t see-through.
“Teresa? What are you staring at?”
“The woman over there.”
He turned around. I blinked and she was gone, like she’d never existed. That was impossible. I would have seen her leave, or heard her shoes squeaking on the tile floor. Gage didn’t say anything, just faced forward and folded his hands on top of the table. I waited for him to speak and realized too late he was clocking me; listening, smelling, observing everything he could.
“You’re not okay, are you?” he asked.
“I’m just a little off. It’s been a stressful day, Gage. I think I need to lie down for a while.”
“Maybe Dr. Seward—”
“Forget it.”
I stood up and the ground dipped. I gripped the table and stayed upright somehow. The tabletop was vibrating. I backed up, hit my chair, and plunked back down into the seat. A pair of handprints marred the table’s wood surface, burned right into the grain, dark enough to appear black even through the purple glaze.
“Teresa—”
“Don’t!”
I only meant to hold up my hand as a “stop right there” gesture, and then something entirely unexpected happened—a haze of purple energy, like a wad of cotton candy, surged from my palm and hit Gage directly in the chest. He fell backward, bounced off a nearby chair, and landed on the ground in a groaning heap.
Oh, God. “No …”
The deep-seated nausea returned, twisting my stomach in its iron grip. The purple hue over my vision deepened to a shade one step up from black. I ran to the door, propelled by panic. I thought I’d explode if I couldn’t release the energy churning inside me.
Sight dwindling into nonexistence, I continued on by instinct until I slammed against a glass door. It shattered. I felt no glass cutting me, no bursts of pain. My boots crunched across the littered shards until chilly air brushed my face. The sun must have set; I couldn’t feel its gentle warmth.
I tilted my head toward the sky, eyes wide and unseeing, and let go. The explosion of energy surged upward with the dizzying force of a water hydrant bursting open. Up to the sky it went, and I felt it more than saw it. Felt it until I had nothing left, and the blackness rocked me to unconsciousness.