“Which are?” Kasey heard herself ask.
“Criminals, or victims.”
Criminals. The word zapped Kasey out of her trance. “Which do you think she was?”
“Celia? Committing a crime?” The boy’s gaze narrowed. “If she had any fault, it was for loving too much.”
Definitely not a stranger, then. He’d obviously known Celia. Known her well. The look in his eyes—the intoxication, the all-consuming determination—matched what Kasey had seen in the eyes of people like Tristan/Dmitri. They loved Celia so much that they couldn’t move on. They reacted with equal and opposite force to the force that loss exerted on them.
They were the normal humans.
And Kasey wasn’t. Swallowing, she glanced again to the powder in the tin. One misplaced grain, and the Intraface would never turn on again. It must have taken months to come as far as the boy had, and during this time, what had Kasey done? Dodged reporters. Accepted the tragedy. Thrown a party.
In the eyes of the world, she was more of a clown than a ghost.
She returned the REM to its holster and faced the boy, who’d answered everything he’d been asked. At a minimum, she owed him an explanation.
“I’m Kasey.” As if that meant anything to him. “Mizuhara.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d introduced herself by her full name—wouldn’t have been able to, outside, without tripping up a tapped bot and giving her location away to reporters. But here, in a private domain, she was safe. Physically.
Mentally, she felt more out of her element than at her party.
“Celia’s younger sister,” she added for good measure, at the same time the boy said, “I know who you are.”
That threw Kasey for a loop. Then she recovered. The sound bite had gone viral.
If the boy judged her for dispassionately proclaiming her sister dead, he didn’t reveal it. “Come back when it’s ready.”
Kasey’s Intraface pinged with a new contact request.
ACTINIUM
Rank: 0
A normal person would’ve been grateful. He’d known her sister. He was someone who understood.
But that would have been Kasey’s third mistake: assuming anyone would really understand her.
She left the room without a word, left the boy and her sister’s Intraface with him, left the door open behind her, and took only the weight in her chest.
||||?||
THE DOOR SWINGS SHUT BEHIND me, and I face the storm beyond the porch.
I’ve had plenty of terrible ideas, but this one takes the taro biscuit. With each step into the hailing rain, I wonder if I should wait. By tomorrow, the skies will be clear.
Then lightning flashes again, illuminating the body, and I remember this is a person. They might already be dead, but on the off chance they’re not, I can’t leave them to the mercy of the elements. So I keep on, toward the waterline and through the downpour, until after a light-year and then some, I reach them.
A boy—and not a bad-looking one, I decide at the next crack of lightning and thunder, if you ignore （or consider） the fact he’s unapologetically naked.
Admire later. I’m trying to figure out how to transport him when the surf crashes into me and nearly knocks me over. Shit, that’s cold. More waves are surging—I can hear them, roaring closer—and I was already drenched but now I’m inhaling rainwater.
Time to get out of here.
I heave my cargo up by the armpits and start hauling. The slick makes everything harder. The sand’s become a swamp and twice, I almost slip.
Third time’s the charm.
I land hard on my back while the naked boy lands on me, and maybe it’d be comical if he didn’t weigh as much as Hubert. With a guttural cry, I push him half off. The effort leaves me winded, and I lie there, trying to catch my breath, while the sky waterboards me.
That’s when his other half lifts.
He’s awake.
I mean, he must be. Lightning—his hair’s in his eyes and I can’t see if they’re open or not but—blackness—he’s leaning over me and no longer crushing me and that’s an improvement even if I’m still trapped. Beneath him.
A human.
The rain emits a faint sheen where it lands, creating the illusion it’s evaporating off him. In reality, it’s streaming down his hair, his face, and onto mine. I blink the water out of my eyes. My brain feels sodden. What do I do? What do I say?
“Hey.” It registers, in the back of my brain, that this is my first time talking to another person in three years—a monumental moment, not that the storm cares. “Mind getting—”