Hugh held up a hand to her and she fell quiet. His attention was still fixed on Adrian, his mouth twisted into a frown.
“Please,” said Adrian. “I know that I might not learn anything, but … I have to try.”
Hugh let his hand fall as he stepped out of the elevator. “I’ll approve temporary clearance to the labs for the sole purpose of speaking with Mr. Pratt.”
A grin stretched across Adrian’s mouth. “Thank you!”
“But, Adrian…” Hugh’s brow tensed. “Don’t get your hopes up, all right? He isn’t exactly a reliable resource.”
“Maybe not,” said Adrian, stepping back as the doors started to close between them, “but he did lead me to Nightmare.”
*
CLEARANCE ARRIVED NINETY minutes later via a chime on his wristband. When it came, Adrian was in one of the patrol dormitories making a list of everything he knew about his mother’s death, about the Anarchists, about Nightmare, and trying to come up with a strategy for questioning the ex-villain.
He thought about reaching out to Nova to see if she would go with him—he could have used her intuition—but then he remembered her saying that she was going home to check on her uncle after the meeting.
Though she’d never come out and said it, Adrian suspected there might be something wrong with her uncle. Perhaps he was sick, or just getting old. He never felt like it was his place to ask her about it, but he had noticed the way Nova’s mouth pinched whenever she mentioned him. Part of Adrian was hurt that she wouldn’t confide in him, but he knew it was hypocritical to think that way when there were so many secrets that he had yet to confide to her.
So he went to the labs alone. He scanned for Max as he passed by the quarantine walls, but the kid was nowhere to be seen in his glass city.
A portly man in a white lab coat was waiting for Adrian when he entered the laboratory. “Follow me, and don’t touch anything,” he said brusquely. “The patient is currently undergoing an important post-procedure evaluation and we expect him to be tired and agitated. I ask that you limit your meeting with him to no more than fifteen minutes today, though his assigned counselor might approve further questioning sessions in the weeks to come.”
“Counselor?” asked Adrian.
The man tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “To assist with the transition from prodigy to civilian. We’re still trying to understand the full extent of emotional struggles that arise from such a change, but we’ve found that offering counseling from the start severely lessens some of the psychological ramifications going forward.”
Adrian followed the man through a maze of workstations, cubicles, and storage spaces. “How many people have received Agent N so far?” he asked, wondering if the seven that Dr. Hogan had mentioned was the extent of it.
The man’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m afraid that is confidential, Mr. Everhart.”
Of course it was.
Then the man’s posture relaxed, and he slowed his pace so Adrian was walking alongside him. “Though I can say…，” he said, glancing around in a manner that suggested he really wasn’t supposed to say, “that everyone here has been … surprisingly pleased at the reactions from many of our patients. It was an unexpected result, but it has not been uncommon for ex-prodigies to feel, well, a sense of relief, after the procedure. They often talk about their previous abilities as being a burden, as much as a gift.”
Adrian tried to imagine feeling grateful to lose his powers but he couldn’t. The loss would devastate him, and he couldn’t help being suspicious at the man’s words. Either the neutralized patients were just saying what they thought their counselors wanted to hear, or the people in this laboratory were skewing their words to justify using the patients for their tests … against their will, he assumed.
“Here we are,” said the man, stopping outside an unmarked white door.
The door opened and a polished woman smiled out at them. “I’m just finishing up here. One moment.” She stepped back into the room, leaving the door open. Adrian craned his head, watching her approach a simple cot against the wall, where Winston Pratt was lying flat on his back. She leaned over him and touched her fingers to his shoulder, whispering something.
Winston appeared to have no reaction.
The woman gathered up a purse and a notepad and stepped out into the hall. “I’ll be back to see him in the morning,” she said. Then, turning to Adrian, she added, “Try not to upset him if you can help it. It’s been a difficult day.”
“‘Difficult day’？” said Adrian, appalled at the sympathy in her tone. This was the villain who had brainwashed countless innocent children, forcing them to attack their peers, their families, even themselves on occasion. And the people here were concerned that he might be having a difficult day?
Adrian bit back his thoughts and forced a wan smile.
The woman slipped away and Adrian turned back to the small room. A couple of chairs were stationed beside the cot, and a plate of sandwiches, apparently untouched, sat on a side table. The lighting was dim and warm, and the air smelled of a mix of chemical cleaners and lavender room spray.
“Um … shouldn’t he be restrained … or something?” whispered Adrian.
The man chuckled. “He’s not a villain anymore,” he said, slapping Adrian on the shoulder. “What are you afraid of?” He started to walk away. “I’ll be back to get you in fifteen minutes, but if you’re done sooner, have them page me.”
Adrian stood inside the doorway for a long moment, observing the villain on the cot. He knew that Winston must be aware of his presence, but he never took his eyes from the ceiling. He had been changed out of the striped prison uniform into light blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and he appeared so utterly disheartened that Adrian felt a twinge of that sympathy he’d criticized the woman for.
“Mr. Pratt?” he said, shutting the door behind him. “I’m Adrian Everhart. We met once before … I’m not sure if they told you I was coming today or not … but I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
Winston did not move, except for his eyelids closing and opening in slow motion.
“I know a lot of people have talked to you lately about the Anarchists, and where they might be hiding out, but there’s a different mystery that I was hoping you could maybe shine some light on.”
When Winston still didn’t react, Adrian perched on the edge of the one of the chairs, resting his elbows on his knees. “Last time I spoke to you, the Anarchists had just abandoned the subway tunnels, and most of them have not been seen or heard from since. I’m told that you’ve been questioned at length on their whereabouts and I believe you when you say that you don’t know where they are.”
No response.
He looked so different from when Adrian had interrogated him before, without the permanent etchings of marionette lines on his jaw or the circles of rouge on his cheeks, without the sinister grin. He still had the ginger-red hair, but it now fell uninspired across his forehead.
He looked so … so normal. He could have been anyone. A math teacher. A truck driver. A shop owner.