“She clearly has a type,” Max is saying. “At this point, it’s practically written in her DNA.”
Anderson says something I don’t hear.
“Is it really such a bad thing?” Max says. “Perhaps her affection for you could work out in your favor. Take advantage of it.”
“You think I’m so desperate for companionship—or so completely incompetent—that I’d need to result to seduction in order to get what I want out of the girl?”
Max barks out a laugh. “We both know you’ve never been desperate for companionship. But as to your competence . . .”
“I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
“It’s been thirty years, Paris, and I’m still waiting for you to develop a sense of humor.”
“It’s been thirty years, Max, and you’d think I’d have found some new friends by now. Better ones.”
“You know, your kids aren’t funny, either,” Max says, ignoring him. “Interesting how that works, isn’t it?”
Anderson groans.
Max only laughs louder.
I frown.
I stand there, trying and failing to process their interactions. Max just insulted a supreme commander of The Reestablishment—multiple times. As Anderson’s subordinate, he should be punished for speaking so disrespectfully. He should be fired, at the very least. Executed, if Anderson deems it preferable.
But when I hear the distant sound of Anderson’s laughter, I realize that he and Max are laughing together. It’s a realization that both startles and stuns me:
That they must be friends.
One of the overhead lights pops and hums, startling me out of my reverie. I give my head a quick shake and head out the door.
KENJI
I’m suddenly a big fan of the Warner groupies.
On our way back to my tent, I told only a couple of people I spotted on the path that Warner was hungry—but still not feeling well enough to join everyone in the dining hall—and they’ve been delivering packages of food to my room ever since. The problem is, all this kindness comes with a price. Six different girls （and two guys） have shown up so far, each one of them expecting payment for their generosity in the form of a conversation with Warner, which—obviously— never happens. But they usually settle for a good long look at him.
It’s weird.
I mean, even I know, objectively, that Warner’s not disgusting to look at, but this whole production of unabashed flirtation is really starting to feel weird. I’m not used to being in an environment where people openly admit to liking anything about Warner. Back at Omega Point—and even on base in Sector 45—everyone seemed to agree that he was a monster. No one denied their fear or disgust long enough to treat him like the kind of guy at whom they might bat their eyelashes.
But what’s funny is: I’m the only one getting irritated.
Every time the doorbell rings I’m like, this is it, this is the time Warner is finally going to lose his mind and shoot someone, but he never even seems to notice. Of all the things that piss him off, gawking men and women don’t appear to be on the list.
“So is this, like, normal for you, or what?” I’m still arranging food on plates in the little dining area of my room. Warner is standing stiffly in a random spot by the window. He chose that random spot when we walked in and he’s just been standing there, staring at nothing, ever since.
“Is what normal for me?”
“All these people,” I say, gesturing at the door. “Coming in here pretending they’re not imagining you without your clothes on. Is that just, like, a normal day for you?”
“I think you’re forgetting,” he says quietly, “that I’ve been able to sense emotions for most of my life.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So this is just a normal day for
you.”
He sighs. Stares out the window again.
“You’re not even going to pretend it’s not true?” I rip open a foil container. More potatoes. “You won’t even pretend you don’t know that the entire world finds you attractive?”
“Was that a confession?”
“You wish, dickhead.”
“I find it boring,” Warner says. “Besides, if I paid attention to every single person who found me attractive I’d never have time for anything else.”
I nearly drop the potatoes.
I wait for him to crack a smile, to tell me he’s joking, and when he doesn’t, I shake my head, stunned.
“Wow,” I say. “Your humility is a fucking inspiration.”