“Sir?” I say, confused.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Anderson says. “I would like you to dispose of him.”
Understanding dawns. “Certainly, sir.”
The moment I turn in Darius’s direction, he screams; it’s a sharp, bloodcurdling sound that irritates my ears. He makes a run for the door and I pivot quickly, throwing out my arm to stop him. The force of my power sends him flying the rest of the way to the exit, his body slamming hard against the steel wall.
He slumps, with a soft moan, to the ground.
I open my palm. He screams.
Power surges through me, filling my blood with fire. The feeling is intoxicating. Delicious.
I lift my hand and Darius’s body lifts off the floor, his head thrown back in agony, his body run through by invisible rods. He continues to scream and the sound fills my ears, floods my body with endorphins. My skin hums with his energy. I close my eyes.
Then I close my fist.
Fresh screams pierce the silence, echoing around the vast, cavernous space. I feel a smile tugging at my lips and I lose myself in the feeling, in the freedom of my own power. There’s a joy in this, in using my strength so freely, in finally letting go.
Bliss.
My eyes flutter open but I feel drugged, deliriously happy as I watch his seized, suspended body begin to convulse. Blood spurts from his nose, bubbles up inside his open, gasping mouth. He’s choking. Nearly dead. And I’m just beginning t— The fire leaves my body so suddenly it sends me stumbling backward.
Darius falls, with a bone-cracking thud, to the floor.
A desperate emptiness burns through me, leaves me feeling faint. I hold my hands up as if in prayer, trying to figure out what happened, feeling suddenly close to tears. I spin around, trying to understand— Anderson is pointing a weapon at me.
I drop my hands.
Anderson drops his weapon.
Power surges through me once more and I take a deep, grateful breath, finding relief in the feeling as it floods my senses, refilling my veins. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, but it’s Darius’s pathetic, agonized whimpers that bring me back to the present moment. I stare at his broken body, the shallow pools of blood on the floor. I feel vaguely annoyed.
“Incredible.”
I turn around.
Anderson is staring at me with unvarnished amazement. “Incredible,” he says again. “That was incredible.”
I stare at him, uncertain.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Disappointed, sir.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Why disappointed?”
I glance at Darius. “Because he’s still alive, sir. I didn’t complete the task.”
Anderson’s face breaks into a smile so wide it electrifies his features. He looks young. He looks kind. He looks wonderful.
“My God,” he says softly. “You’re perfect.”
KENJI
“Hey,” I call out. “Wait up!”
I’m still sprinting after Warner and, in a move that surprises absolutely no one, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even slow down. In fact, I’m pretty sure he speeds up.
I realize, as I pick up the pace, that I haven’t felt fresh air in a couple of days. I look around as I go, trying to take in the details. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it. There’s no cloud in sight for miles. I don’t know if this weather is unique to the geographical location of Sector 241, or if it’s just regular climate change. Regardless, I take a deep breath. Air feels good.
I was getting claustrophobic in the dining hall, spending endless hours with the ill and injured. The colors of the room had begun to bleed together, all the linen and ash-colored cots and the too-bright, unnatural light. The smells were intense, too. Blood and bleach. Antiseptic. It was making my head swim. I woke up with a massive headache this morning—though, to be fair, I wake up with a massive headache almost every morning—but being outside is beginning to soothe the ache.
Who knew.
It’s nice out here, even if it’s a little hot in this outfit. I’m wearing a pair of old fatigues I found in my room. Sam and Nouria made sure from the start that we had everything we needed—even now, even after the battle. We have toiletries. Clean clothes.
Warner, on the other hand—
I squint at his retreating figure. I can’t believe he still hasn’t taken a shower. He’s still wearing Haider’s leather jacket, but it’s practically destroyed. His black pants are torn, his face still smudged with what I can only imagine is a combination of blood and dirt. His hair is wild. His boots are dull. And somehow—somehow—he still manages to look put together. I don’t get it.