Note: please read this page, if you haven't already -> Four_Short_Stories
Awakening the Dragon
Genre: Sci-Fi Thriller
Language: 2
Violence: 4
Sensuality: 1
"You're late." she said without looking up from her phone. Her legs were crossed, one high-heeled shoe dangling precariously from her toes.
Sam had no idea who the stunning woman was. She was seated on the faded sofa in his living room. Her burgundy dress hugged curves that seemed deliberately exaggerated to encourage stares. It had a slit which revealed a generous amount of leg. She looked too sophisticated to be in this house with the faded sofa, the thoroughly and unintentionally distressed hardwood flooring, the end table with the coffee ring his sister never bothered to wipe. Yet there she was, lounging like she owned the place. The scent of expensive perfume tickled his nose.
"Ella here?" Sam asked shrugging the backpack straps off his shoulder, and letting the pack tumble haphazardly to the floor. He'd just walked in the front door, having finished his college classes for the day. His pulse thudded in his ears. Something was off. No TV, no music, just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. His sister never left the house this quiet.
The woman finally glanced up, her crimson lips curving into a smile that made Sam's stomach tighten. "Ella is... resting," she said, stretching her arms above her head with a lazy grace that didn't match the tension in the room. "You must be Sam." Her accent curled around his name like smoke—Eastern European, maybe Russian.
Sam shifted his weight. fingertips brushing against the door-frame behind him. He could feel it—the wrongness—like static crawling up his spine. His sister never had friends over, not ones who looked like they stepped out of a James Bond movie, not ones who were probably more than half-again her age. And where was Ella? The silence upstairs wasn't just absence; it was the kind of quiet that came with held breath and clenched fists.
James Bond
Sam forced a grin, the kind he practiced in the bathroom mirror after shaving—Just cocky enough to seem confident, but not so much that it tipped into arrogance. "Resting huh?" He stretched his arms with a deliberate casualness, making his best shot at an 'accidental' bicep flex—not that he had much bicep to flex. "That's new. Ella usually naps like a cat, somewhere obvious and inconvenient." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So. You here to see her, or...?" He let the question hang, eyebrows lifting suggestively.
The woman's laugh was a low, throaty thing that didn't match the sharpness in her eyes. "Or?" she echoed, tilting her head. The movement made her dark hair slip over her shoulder, the ends brushing against the deep V of her neckline. Sam's pulse jumped.
"Or," he said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "You're here to see me." He flashed another grin, this one looser, more natural. He concentrated letting his mind expand, reaching out like tendrils feeling the air in front of him. He never used his 'special' ability. It had manifested shortly after his twelfth birthday, and since he knew of nobody else with such a capability, he lived in constant fear of being discovered and either imprisoned for science experiments or killed for being an 'existential threat' to humanity. The current situation was becoming too nervous, however. He needed some sense as to this woman's intentions. "If you are, you picked a bad day. I've got a chem midterm tomorrow, and my notes look like hieroglyphics."
The woman uncrossed her legs slowly, the movement calculated—like a cat deciding whether to pounce or play. For the briefest moment, Sam caught a metallic flash from something attached to her leg. The dangling heel hit the floor with a click. "Chemistry?" she mused, running a fingertip along the armrest. "How... Ordinary." Her gaze flicked past his shoulder for half a second—too quick for most to notice, but Sam caught it. Someone was there.
The sharp crack against the back of Sam's skull exploded into white-hot pain before he even registered the movement behind him. His knees hit the hardwood with a hollow thud, vision swimming as the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Fingertips scraped uselessly against the floorboards—his thoughts scattering like dropped marbles—while somewhere above him, his attacker's breathing sounded almost bored.
"Easy Gregor!" The woman chastened, irritation amplifying her accent. "He tells us nothing if you break his brain."
Gregor responded with a disinterested grunt.
"Up." A toe nudged Sam's ribs. He blinked up at Gregor's silhouette—a mountain of a man blocking the entry light—before the Woman's heels clicked into view. She crouched in front of him, burgundy dress pooling around her like spilled wine, and gripped his chin with manicured fingers.
"Sam, Sam, Sam," She tutted, tilting his head to examine the growing welt. Her thumb smeared blood from his split lip. "Such a pretty face. Shame if we have to ruin it." Her smile turned venomous as she leaned closer. "Where is Vigo keeping the Falcon blueprints."
Sam spat blood onto the dull wood floor, grinning up at Ivana with deliberate defiance. "Blueprints?" His laugh was raw, more breath than sound. "Lady, my dad sells knockoff watches and expired supplements. You wanna interrogate someone about shady deals, try the guys at his bowling club—"
Gregor's boot connected with his ribs before he could finish—not a nudge this time. The pain was a white-hot starburst, knocking air from his lungs. Sam curled inward instinctively, but the woman's fingers dug into his jaw, forcing his head back up.
"Funny boy," she purred, tracing a pistol's muzzle along his cheekbone. "But lies aren't cute. They will get you trouble."
"Not. Lying." Sam push the words out between gasps.
"Keep this up, You'll wind up like your sister, with fingernails scattered across the floor." Sam's vision went red—not just from frustration at feeling helpless, but also the image of his sister painted by the woman's words.
Sam's fingers twitched toward the woman's pistol before his conscious mind caught up—years of martial arts training with his Father and sister overriding the pain radiating through his ribs. He moved like water, palm sliding up the inside of her wrist, thumb jamming into the pressure point below her palm. The gun clattered to the floor between them.
Gregor's fist caught him mid-lunge, a freight train of knuckles crashing into his temple. Sam's vision whited out for a heartbeat, the taste of iron flooding his mouth as his head snapped back. He hit the floor hard, one arm twisted behind him with a grip that felt like industrial machinery. Gregor's knee pressed between his shoulder blades, grinding bone against hardwood.
"You're quicker than you look," the woman mused, retrieving her pistol with a dancer's grace. She crouched beside him, the slit of her dress parting to reveal a thigh holster strapped over sheer stockings. "But not quick enough." The cold muzzle pressed against Sam's nape made his sweat-slick skin prickle.
The pressure in Sam's skull built like a storm surge—not pain, but something deeper, hotter, primal. He'd spent seven years hiding this part of himself away. burying it under marginal grades and carefully cultivated mediocrity, experimenting only when he was absolutely certain he was unobserved. But Gregor's knee ground deeper into his spine, his sadistic sneer hovering in Sam's periphery. The imagery of his sister screaming in pain reverberated in his brain like a struck gong.
Sam stopped fighting.
For half a second, the two attackers mistook his stillness for surrender. Then the air thickened. The overhead light flickered.
"Ivana?" Gregors voice was tight, confused. His grip loosened.
Sam had never tried anything quite like this—not to this scale. He'd moved pennies a time or two, down in the basement. Once he crumpled a soda can.
"Gregor? What is it?"
The crunch was obscene—not loud, but wet, like a melon dropped on a concrete floor. Gregor's fingers spasm-ed open, his massive body jerking once before his skull caved inward, the bone crunching, then yielding like a walnut in the vise of Sam's rage. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the hardwood in an arc, spattering Ivana's face and front before she could flinch.
The pistol slipped from Sam's neck as Ivana's grip went slack. Slowly, silently she rose to her feet. Eyes wide in disbelief. Gregor's body collapsed down, then slumped forward, grotesquely boneless, blood pooling beneath his ruined head in a slow, syrupy circle. Ivana's breath hitched—she'd seen death before, but never like this.
Her gaze darted across the room, searching corners, shadows—anything that could explain the impossible. The pistol's muzzle traced erratic patterns through the air as she pivoted on her heels, slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor. "Who's there?"Her voice was steel, but with an unmistakable tremor.
Sam hadn't moved, pinned under Gregor's corpse, he exhaled sharply through his nose, blinking blood from his lashes. His fingers twitched against the floorboards—not reaching for anything just... trembling. Like a man holding back a sneeze. He rose slowly, Gregor's corpse sliding off his back with a wet slump. Blood dripped from his hairline, streaking down his temple like war paint. Ivana's pistol snapped up, the tip of the barrel vibrating. Her pupils were blown wide.
His response was unplanned, instinctive. As one hand came up defensively—a futile, reactionary effort to shield him from her gun—Sam's mind reached out toward her, into her. In his mind he could see—vaguely ultrasound-like—the shapes and positions of organs. An ovary. He gripped it, twisted, squeezed.
Ivana's scream wasn't human. It was the sound of an animal caught in a bear trap, high and keening as her knees buckled. The pistol discharged into the floor, splintering wood as she crumpled forward, hands clawing at her abdomen. Blood bloomed dark through burgundy silk between her thighs.
Sam snatched the pistol from Ivana's limp fingers with a motion so fluid it might have been choreographed. He pressed the muzzle to her forehead just as her scream tapered into wet, panting whimpers. Blood seeped through her dress, dripping onto the hardwood in fat, rhythmic drops.
"Who are you?" Sam's voice was steel wrapped in velvet.
"What are you?" Ivana stared at Sam as though seeing him for the first time.
Sam pressed the gun harder into her forehead until the skin dimpled around the Muzzle. "I'm not playing, who are you?"
Ivana's eyes hardened, "ask your father."
Once again Sam reached into her abdomen. He found her remaining ovary and twisted his thought around it. He could feel it, pulsing in his mental grasp, fragile as a ripe plum. He squeezed slowly, like a vise closing.
Ivana's knees buckled and she collapsed to her back with a scream. Her spine arched off the floor, heels scraping against the hardwood. Her nails clawed at her own abdomen shredding skin and silk alike.
"Lies aren't cute." Sam parroted Ivana. "They will get you trouble."
"Not. Lying." Ivana's spoke through clenched teeth, her breathing ragged. "Vigo sent us."
Sam's brain froze. It didn't make sense, but for some reason it rang as truth. But how? Why?
"Then why did he send you to get these Falcon blueprints?"
"Not. Blueprints. A part. For the prototype."
"You called them blueprints. But whatever, why send you?"
"Complete. Time for clean-up."
"Clean-up." The words sounded ominous.
Ivana chuckled, "Vigo's idiot son. A sheep raised by wolves." Her chuckle dissolved into a cough. "But, not a sheep. Not a wolf."
Sam relaxed his psychic grip on Ivana, his mind replaying the conversation. "So... My Dad... Was just going to have you... kill me? What about Ella?"
Ella...
Sam had almost forgotten. He bolted upstairs, taking the steps three at a time, and raced down the hall to his sister's bedroom. Ella's door was ajar—Wrong. So wrong. She never left it open. The metallic tang of blood hit him before he crossed the threshold. His stomach lurched.
The scene unfolded in horrific snapshots: Ella spreadeagled on her bed. Bloody fingernails with strings of flesh attached, scattered around her body. Wrists and ankles bound to the corner posts with zip ties that bit deep into swollen flesh. Her favorite yellow sundress was torn at the shoulder, the fabric stiff with drying blood. One eye was swollen shut, the other tracking him wildly as he skidded to his knees beside the mattress. The gag—a strip of duct tape—peeled away with a sound that made Sam's molars ache.
Ella's working eye widened as she tried to raise her torso off the bed, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. "Sam—you—idiot—" she rasped, her voice shredded from screaming. "They're downstairs—Ivana and Gregor—you need to run—"
Sam caught her shoulders, stilling her thrashing before she could tear the wounds on her wrists further. "They're dead," he said, quieter than he meant to. A wave of nausea passed over him at the realization of what he had done, the dreadful, monstrous things he had done...
Ella froze. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Bodies in the living room." Sam lied smoothly, reaching for a pocketknife he kept in his jeans. The blade clicked open. "Heard a gunshot as I was walking up the driveway. Came inside, saw them..." He shrugged, working the knife under Ella's zip ties. "Came looking for you."
Ella's good eye narrowed, her breath hitching as the plastic restraints snapped apart. "Gregor was two hundred pounds of trained killer. How—"
Sam forced a laugh that sounded tinny even to his own ears. "Robbery gone wrong maybe? Got petty and killed each other? Dad's got that Rolex Collection in his office—"
Sam moved to her ankles, listening to Ella's labored breathing.
"You knew their names," Sam said slowly, watching her face carefully. The pocketknife trembled in his grip—just slightly—before he snapped it shut. "Ivana and Gregor. You said them like you'd met before."
Ella's mouth pressed into a tight line. Blood welled bright against pale skin. For three heartbeats the only sound was the rustle of the torn bed-sheet beneath her. Her shoulders sagged, and she exhaled through her nose like she'd been holding that breath for years. She turned her face toward the ceiling, blinking rapidly—not crying, Sam realized, but calculating.
"Oh Sam, poor, foolish, oblivious Sam."
Sam blinked at Ella, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "So, what are you saying? Dad's in the mob? Because that would explain the..." He gestured vaguely at Ella's wrecked body.
Ella's laugh was a rasping, broken thing. She stared at him with her one good eye. "Yeah, Sam, he's a mob boss."
Sam flicked the pocketknife open again, then closed it and returned it to his pocket. "Well, unless you're about to tell me he's secretly batman, I'm fresh out of guesses."
Ella exhaled sharply—that same frustrated puff of air she'd used when Sam would bring home a report card of solid C's. "He's a spy, Sam."
Sam's laughter came out too loud, too sharp—a sound that made Ella flinch. He rubbed his palms against his jeans. "Spy? Like, government spy?" He shook his head, grinning like she'd just told him the sky was green. "Come on, Ella. Dad forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste. You really expect me to believe he's some kind of—" he waved his hand vaguely, "super-secret agent?"
Ella's jaw tightened. A drop of blood slid down her chin, but she didn't wipe it away.
Sam slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers tightened around the pocketknife, the metal warm against his palm. He studied Ella's face—the way her eyelid twitched, the slight flare of her nostrils. Tells that Sam recognized. She was holding something back.
"You're hiding something." Sam kept his voice light, almost teasing—the same tone he'd use when accusing her of stealing the last chocolate bar. "About Dad, what is it? C'mon sis, I get it, I'm the runt of the family, you were always Dad's favorite, so you spent more time with him than me, but your familiarity with all of this goes beyond poking around his office. It's pretty clear that you are in the family business." Sam's furrowed his brow. "Wait, what about mom. Is she a spy too? Should I check her sewing kit for cyanide pills? Am I the only person in this family who isn't a spy?"
Ella's laugh was a wet, painful sound—halfway between a cough and a sob. She pressed the back of her hand to her bleeding lip, smearing crimson across her knuckles. "You think this is funny?" Her voice cracked like dry kindling. "They Tortured me Sam, for hours. And you're—what? Cracking jokes like this is some stupid spy movie?"
Sam's grin faded. He reached for Ella's wrist—the less damaged one—but she jerked away before his fingers could make contact. The motion sent fresh blood dripping onto the bedspread. "I'm not joking," he said quietly. His fingers curled into his palm, nails biting into flesh. "But if I'm gonna die because I was born into the Bond family, don't I deserve to know why? Can you at the very least give me a hint as to who's the good guys and who's the bad guys?"
Ella visibly deflated as she exhaled a breath. "There are no good guys," she whispered. The words hung between them like smoke after a gunshot. Her swollen eyelid twitched, "Just different flavors of monster."
"What is this obsession with animals—sheep, wolves, monsters..."
A floorboard creaked downstairs.
Ivana. Sam cursed under his breath.
Ella struggled upright, her torn dress rustling against the bedspread. "Did you hear—?"
Sam's fingers twitched. He forced a yawn, stretching his arms overhead with exaggerated nonchalance. "Probably the AC kicking on," he lied, watching Ella's face from the corner of his eye.
Ella's lip curled. "Bull." She whispered.
Sam turned abruptly and walked toward the doorway.
"Sam—" Ella's voice cracked like thin ice. Her uninjured eye tracked him as he moved toward the door, his footsteps deliberately heavy.
"Relax," Sam murmured, palming the pocketknife again. He paused at the doorway, head tilted as if listening to distant music. "Just checking the locks."
The bedroom door clicked shut behind Sam with deliberate softness. He pressed his back against the hallway wall, letting the shadows swallow him.
Downstairs, the silence was wrong. Not empty, but waiting. Sam quieted his breathing, listening. There—a wet, shuffling drag against hardwood. Ivana was crawling.
Sam's fingers flexed around the pocketknife. He opened his mind, reaching out. He could feel her consciousness, flickering like a dying ember, her pain a jagged hook in his mind. He shook his head. He should have crushed her skull like Gregor's. He flinched at the thought.
Sam moved down the hallway on silent feet, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The house groaned around him—old pipes settling, floorboards whispering under his weight—but beneath that, the wet, rhythmic scrape of Ivana dragging herself across the living room floor.
The stairway loomed before him. Sam paused, one hand braced against the wall. His fingers left smears of Ella's blood on the wallpaper—pale cream with little blue flowers. Their mother had picked it out years ago. He wondered if she'd known about any of this.
Sam's foot hovered over the top stair. Below, a muffled groan. Ivana's silhouette moved in jerky slow motion near the foyer, her ruined dress catching the fading sun rays cast through the sidelights. She was heading for the front door, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind her. One hand clutched her abdomen. The other hand, struggled with the dual role of dragging her body across the floor while gripping a pistol.
Gregor's pistol. I should have thought to grab it too. Sam silently berated himself for leaving Ivana's pistol in Ella's room.
Sam glided down the stairs ghost-like. He stepped silently over Gregor's lifeless corpse, the ruined skull glistening wetly. He crossed the distance to Ivana soundlessly, then brought his foot crunching down on her extended arm.
Ivana gasped as Sam ground his foot on her wrist. He stooped down and collected the pistol from her immobilized hand.
"Leaving so soon?" Sam questioned softly. "Why don't you tell me more about project Falcon, and your relationship with my Dad before you go?"
Ivana made a sound somewhere between laughing and crying. "Stupid boy, Vigo sent us."
"Why not just grab it himself?"
"Cover."
"His family?"
"Loose ends."
Sam's thoughts turned to his mother, away at a convention for three more days. "His wife?"
"Loose ends."
That was a relief at least, Mom wasn't a spy. Except... Sam's finger traced along the cool metal of the barrel. Ella. She was a spy. And a loose end...
Sam's pulse stuttered—a missed beat that left his ribs hollow. He stared at Ivana's ruined form, blood pooling beneath her like spilled ink. The pistol trembled in his grip—ever so slightly—before he pressed the barrel against the soft skin beneath her Jaw. "Project Falcon. Explain it to me like I'm the idiot you think I am."
Ivana's eyelid fluttered like a moth caught in a web. "Stealth aircraft. Prototype. Silent. Invisible."
"Silent?" Sam repeated. "A glider."
"Antigravity." Her hand clutched at her abdomen, fingers sinking into the ruined silk. Her breathing sounded like marbles rolling across glass. Her fingers spasm-ed one last time, smearing a final arc of crimson on the floor before her hand went slack. Sam watched the light leave her eyes, noting how her pupils dilated, then fixed.
So many unanswered questions.
Sam rose to his feet, idly flicking the safety on the pistol. The grip felt comfortable in his hand. Sunset streaming through the window painted Gregor's corpse in crimson as he stepped over it, avoiding the congealing puddle near the shattered skull. He ascended the stairs and ghosted down the hall, opening Ella's door with a click. He could hear her ragged breathing—too fast—too shallow—and the rustle of fabric as she she shifted on the ruined sheet. Forcing his shoulders to slump into their usual careless posture, Sam pushed the door open wide with an exaggerated yawn.
"Told you," he announced flopping onto the foot of her bed with deliberate casualness. The mattress springs groaned under his weight. "Just the AC kicking on. That and a loose pipe in the basement—probably what made that scraping noise." He flicked a glance at Ella's wrists—raw, purpling—and quickly looked away.
"So," he said, examining the pistol with exaggerated focus, "should I call 911? Or is there, like a secret bat signal I'm supposed to light?" The joke fell flat, his voice cracking on the last syllable like he was thirteen again.
Ella's fingers tightened around the torn sheet. "Funny." Her voice was scraped raw, but the sarcasm came through as clear as glass. "Real comedian."
Sam studied the drying blood beneath his nails—Gregor's, Ivana's, Ella's—and pieced together the jagged edges of the interrogations. Ella's a spy, Dad's a spy, Dad sent professionals to kill him and Ella, The professionals tortured Ella...
Project Falcon.
There was a piece here, some crucial component. Either they were lying about Dad sending them, or Dad didn't know where the missing piece was.
Sam's fingers drummed against his thigh—five quick taps, then silence. "So," he said, too casually, "what's the play here, sis? Ambulance? Or do we call Dad's special emergency line?"
Once more, Sam opened his mind, reaching out toward his sister with psychic tendrils, like antennae. what aren't you telling me?
It was the first ability that surfaced for him. Not mind reading, exactly. More a sense of emotional state. Occasionally, with strong thoughts, he could pick up images. He caught the flicker of her thoughts like catching a whiff of perfume—there, then gone. The attic. a vent. behind insulation.
Ella exhaled deeply, her good eye closing, then opening. "Phone. Back pocket." Her head rolled toward the dresser, where her jeans lay in a heap. "Pin 0928. Star contact"
Sam crossed the room in three quick strides, catching the edge of Ella's Jeans. He fished out the phone and thumbed in 0928. The lock screen dissolved to reveal a home screen cluttered with mundane apps.
"Star contact?" Sam muttered, scrolling past Ella's social media Icons. His thumb paused over a social media app with no name, just an asterisk. When he tapped it, the screen flashed black before displaying a numeric keypad.
Ella's breath hitched behind him. "Six... nine..." She swallowed hard. "Four... seven... two... "
Sam punched in the numbers, each digit echoing like a gunshot in the stillness of the room. The screen pulsed red once -- then flashed green. A single question mark appeared.
"Ella?" Sam turned back to her, the phone slick in his palm.
Her eyelid fluttered. "E... E..." she gasped. "Sparrow... 7..."
The screen went blank. Sam stared at the black reflection of his own face for three heartbeats before the device vibrated. A new message appeared: ETA 12 Minutes.
Sam pocketed the phone. Twelve minutes. The attic access was in the hallway—a pull-down ladder behind a decorative panel. He could be up and down in three if he moved fast.
"You thirsty?" Sam asked suddenly, stepping around Ella's bed with practiced nonchalance. "I need to grab my pack. I can grab a water for you while I'm down there. You need anything?"
Ella's eyelid twitched. "Morphine," she rasped.
Sam flew down the stairs, scooped up his pack, then raced back up to the attic entry. Pulling the attic ladder down, he ascended, skipping every other rung.
The attic smelled like mothballs and prehistoric dust. Sam crouched beneath the sloped ceiling, his sneakers pressing into insulation that hissed and crackled like dried snake skins rubbing together. Behind a pile of boxes labeled "Christmas decorations" lay a roll of unused insulation, behind which was a lone vent. His fingers brushed the vent's rusty screws—cold, loose. Behind the grille, something glinted. Sam pried it open with his pocket knife, the metal groaning in protest. Nestled between a dust bunny and a nest of dead spiders sat a sleek metal case. Inside lay an object roughly half the size of a paperback novel. The surface was impossibly black, but with a faint, pulsing cobalt-blue glow leaking from the edges.
Sam placed the object in his hoodie pocket, returned the empty case to its hiding place, and replaced the grille. He checked his watch. Six minutes, including retrieving his pack. Time to spare. He felt a dull pulsing sensation, emanating from his hoodie pocket, like the object took a deep breath, then exhaled.
A floorboard creaked below him.
Not Ella. She was unable to walk, unable to move in her condition.
Sam ghosted to the attic entry, and peered down from the darkness. Straining his ears. Muffled voices on the main floor. He scampered down the ladder and flattened against the wall, sliding along until he reached the stairs.
Five silhouettes in the moonlight.
"Scrub everything." The voice was a woman's—southern, authoritative, efficient. "No bodies, no forensics. Package extraction in 5 minutes."
Four silhouettes began removing two corpses from the house. One silhouette started up the stairs. Not big, like Gregor. Smooth, like a dancer. A crisp uniform faintly revealing a hint of feminine form.
Sam retreated silently, pausing to lift the attic ladder back into place. Now what? Hide? Attack? A groan from Ella scattered his thoughts.
Different flavors of monster...
Sam opened his mind yet again, reaching out, trying to taste the emotions around him.
Pain, agonizing pain. That would be Ella, her body ruined, her mind slipping in and out of lucidity.
Then another consciousness came within range. Cold, resolute, rigid.
Sam withdrew Ella's Phone from his pocket, and waited as a head came into view. The uniformed woman was carrying a sub-machine gun.
"You're early," Sam held the glowing screen up.
The woman continued forward, her pace unchanged, the barrel of her weapon directed at Sam's chest. "The package."
"My sister is back here." Sam indicated Ella's bedroom door with a flick of his head.
"The package."
"What package?"
"The AGAM. The Anti-Gravity Activation Matrix" A flicker of irritation. She was unaccustomed to being questioned.
Sam felt the object in his hoodie pocket pulse once, low, cold, sinster.
"My sister first." Sam's nails dug into his palm.
"Not the mission." Still unwavering, still inflexible. no forensics
It was rare for Sam to pick words out of people's heads. Only when there was a singular focus to them. No forensics. Including him, including Ella.
Different flavors of monster...
Sam wrapped his thoughts around the woman's heartbeat, felt it expanding, contracting, as though it were resting in his hands. He experienced no feelings, no anger, no fear, no desperation as he applied pressure, there was a clinical coldness to it, he just simply... stopped it. The woman's emotions briefly registered shock, which quickly gave way to annoyance. Irritation that she would fail to complete her mission. As he held her heart in suspended animation, she simply toppled forward, collapsing to the floor in a heap, and then her thoughts stopped.
Sam released his grip on the woman's lifeless heart. He stared at the corpse, unthinking, unfeeling, like he had been hollowed out.
Different flavors of monster...
Sam's mind replayed the image of Gregor's skull imploding, he saw Ivana creating a blood trail as she crawled toward the foyer. Those had been sudden, unplanned, impulsive acts of violence, fueled by fear, rage, desperation.
The uniformed woman...
There was no fear or desperation in that act. it was deliberate, clinical. Did he feel any remorse? for any of them?
Was He 'just a different flavor...'?
No— necessary.
Would they use the same justification?
A stab of pain struck at his mind.
Ella
She was dying, he could feel it.
He raced into her room, dropping to his knees at the bedside. her good eye was closed, her breath rasped low and shallow, a bubble of blood forming at the corner of her mouth. A last wheezing breath, then silence.
No. Not Ella.
Sam threw the whole of his mind into her body. Her abdomen was a mess. Fractured ribs, torn tissue. blood flooding into places it didn't belong. Gregor's work, no doubt. She was dying
He poured his focus into the most damaged parts of her, grabbing the frayed edges of torn organs, drawing them gently together, desperately trying to bind tissue to tissue. A choked sob escaped his lips.
The AGAM pulsed against his stomach, like a second heartbeat. warm, soothing. A feeling of calm seeped into his muscles, like slipping into a warm bath. His mind delved into Ella's abdomen once more, this time with a calm sense of assurance, as if guided by an unseen hand. Once again he pulled torn tissue together, this time focusing in more tightly, intertwining cells and fibers, binding them to each other with threads of pure energy. A glow radiated just under her skin. Her body convulsed once, twice, then a gasp, a rattling breath, then another, stronger, steadier.
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose.
Alive
A muffled curse came from the hallway. Followed by A shout, and a flurry of footfalls on the stairs. Sam shallowed his breathing, straining to hear.
"What happened?"
"No idea. She was like that when I got here."
"What, like she just had a stroke or something?"
"Call it in. And sweep the floor, we need to be certain the house is secure."
They were coming. Could he take care of all four of them before one of them got him? Maybe they won't all come at once. He considered reaching out with his mind, trying to pinpoint their locations, sense their intent. He was already getting a headache from overuse. Plus, he needed to be ready to react whenever they got to him. If only he could teleport. Not to mention the persistent, low-level pulsing from the AGAM was messing with his concentration. If only there were somewhere to hide.
But there wasn't. He needed to act now, or these... monsters... would hurt his sister. He extended his mind outward, resolute, wrathful, and caught the first fluttering thoughts of the closest one.
confusion, fear, uncertainty.
Not a monster, just a poor, dumb soldier following someone else's orders. A sheep in wolf's clothing. Could Sam take that life? him or my sister... If only there were someplace to hide...
Sam felt a unfamiliar surge, a pulse of dark blue light streaked outward from his core, spreading through the air like lightning, maybe more like some sort of fractal. There was a sound, a sort of pinging, like very thin glass fracturing. The air in the room seemed to crack, to fold, warping along the fractal lines.
"What the—"
It stopped as quickly as it started. Sam didn't have time to process what had happened—a tap at the door, and it slowly creaked open.
The first thing he saw was a gun barrel, tentatively probing the threshold.
Sam froze, uncertain how or when to strike. His eyes flicked down to the prone form of his sister.
A muttered curse came from the doorway, "Deak, you gotta see this!"
Fast footfalls, then two faces peered into the room, sub-machine guns poised. These weren't the same figures he had seen moving the corpses, the shapes were wrong.
A low whistle came from one of the two. He bent down, prodding a small object on the floor.
"Fingernail, looks like it was ripped off."
"What the hell, Deak?"
"Torture, I assume, look at all the blood on the sheets."
Two more faces appeared at the doorway. More muttered oaths.
"This is messed up." The first soldier stepped into the room, scanning with a flashlight.
Sam stood frozen in place as the beam reached him, paused, then passed on. The soldier looked right at him. No, through him.
"Obvious signs of torture but no victim, A big Russian with his skull caved in, and another who bled out from her womb." Deak muttered, taking inventory.
No victim? Sam's eyes widened. My sister is right. there.
"You think the Chinese double-crossed the Russians?"
Deak scoffed, "The Chinese don't have field operatives capable of this."
"Iranians? One of our Allies? Britain? France?"
"Iranians are less capable than the Chinese, France couldn't, Britain wouldn't," Deak's eyes darkened, "Israel maybe..."
"I've never seen an Israeli agent big enough to do that kind of damage to a guys head."
Sam's gaze flicked from one solider to the next. How were none of them acknowledging him or Ella? It was like, they didn't exist.
"Man, this whole op is whacked," The third solider hissed. "Some black ops woman got us chasing a mystery box we can't know anything about apart from it's important to national security. People—including her—dying from un-explainable causes... It's like they got us chasing aliens or something."
"Paranoid conspiracy theories are inside thoughts, Jackson," Deak chastised the soldier.
"Sorry sir, I just hate this covert crap, hard to tell who's the good guys."
not monsters. sheep. Sam empathized with the soldier.
"Two more operatives inbound, sir," The fourth man spoke, he had some sort of headset. "We're to sweep for hostiles and wait for them. They're bringing a short-range tracker to locate the package."
Deak's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the room once more. "You heard him. finish sweeping the rooms. Check that attic entrance in the hall too."
Sam stood for a half-dozen heartbeats, mouth agape. How had they not seen him? Ella? He padded around to the front of the bed.
Ella wasn't there. Sam stared at the torn and bloody bedding. The bed was empty. As he stood gaping, the AGAM pulsed again. The cracking sounds returned, and Sam watched as the space in front of the bed began to fractalize and unfold. His sister began to reappear, almost like pieces of a puzzle. No, more like mirrors being moved.
Did I do that? How did I do that? ... A short range tracker...
Sam's eyes darted, scanning the room. He withdrew the AGAM from his hoodie pocket, and examined it, turning it over in his hands. No doors or lids, no rivets, no screws, no openings of any kind. his fingers felt only smoothness as they skimmed over the surface. Was this device track-able? Was there something inside? Or was the case equipped with something?
"Rooms are clear, sir."
Sam froze. The door to Ella's room was wide open. If anybody walked by...
"Attic is clear. You think this package is still here?"
"Operatives will let us know shortly."
Sam glanced from the AGAM in his hand to his sister. He needed to get Ella out of here. He didn't want to leave the AGAM behind—he didn't know what it was or what it did, but if they were that desperate to have it...
"We've swept the 2nd floor, post up on the main-floor entries and wait for the operatives." The soldiers footsteps retreated down the stairway.
If a tracker was coming, and if it was tracking the AGAM, he had no choice but to leave it. They would find him no matter where he went. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a wave of panic wash over him. His gut twisted and his insides clenched. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the object in his hand. He stared down at the tiny block, the pulsing seemed slower, less bright. He jammed it back into his hoodie pocket with a snarl.
A sighing breath drew his attention back to Ella, still unconscious on the bed. How was he going to get her out of here? Carry her? There was something he was missing, something right at the edge of his mind. But every time he tried to focus on it, it faded, like fog in sunlight.
Sam bent down, resting one knee on the bed. He slid his arms under Ella's knees, and upper back. How was he going to make this work? Could he psychically hold her body stiff without harming her? Could he lift something that heavy? He'd floated coins around before, a body was bigger, heavier, floppier than coins. And then what? With that much expended on mental focus, how would he mange to navigate through the house? How was he even going to get out of the house? He had to start somewhere, and for now, that would be brute force lifting his sister. He braced himself and took a deep breath.
It started in the pit of his stomach. A warm, tingling sensation that spread outward flooding his body like water from a hose spreading over the ground. It traveled outward from his center, spreading into his extremities. It wasn't uncomfortable, hardly noteworthy, really. Not unlike the tingling sensation one gets from hyperventilation. Still, it was curious that it happened in that moment.
Sam lifted Ella with surprising ease. Was she lighter than he remembered? He cradled her head in against his chest. Hopefully the repairs he had made to her body would hold. For now, the next step was to get out of the house. No way he was going to make it out a window on the second floor. But if the soldiers were guarding the doors...
How had he made he and his sister invisible in the room? Could he do it again? could he make it move with them?
He felt the pulse from his hoodie pocket again, and then the blue light and the pinging sounds. It was different this time, however. Instead of spreading in front of him, is seemed to be happening all around him. Sam held his breath as the fractalization of the air stopped. His eyes darted about, looking for anything out of place. Was it working?
As he took a step toward the door, he noticed the slightest flickering and warping of details here and there, especially at the edges of his periphery. It was unsettling, almost like a glitch in a computer game rendering. He continued walking into the hall, moving slowly, as much to limit the flickering of reality as to avoid jarring Ella. The stairs proved a challenge—balancing his weight and Ella's on one foot at a time while slowly lowering his other foot to the next step. Even more difficult was skipping that one creaky step. But, he managed without noise, and without jostling his sister too badly. The front room was clean now, no evidence of corpses or blood. The air smelled like a hospital room.
Even the bullet-hole in the flooring had been hastily patched with some sort of putty, which grew less visible as the material cured.
"We're ready to start on the upstairs." Four figures filed in through the front door—the corpse-carriers. They wore heavy gloves and clothes made of vinyl or plastic. Ventilation Masks dangled from straps around their necks.
"It's clear. Bedroom's a mess. Somebody had a really bad day." One of the two soldiers gestured toward the stairs with the barrel of his firearm.
"Worse than down here?"
"No, I mean... no bodies, obvious signs of brutal torture, but not as much blood—nothing compared to that Russian woman..." The soldier shuddered visibly, "I'm gonna have nightmares about that."
"Yeah, never seen one quite like that before."
Sam slipped out of the traffic path as the four figures trudged up the stairs with buckets and cleaning supplies.
No forensics...
Nobody had given Sam even a first glance, though eyes had passed right through him. He wasn't sure how he had done it, but whatever it was, it seemed to be working. He advanced in slow, silent footfalls toward the open front door. He would have to go between the two soldiers keeping a relaxed watch. Their weapons were hanging from straps, loosely gripped by gloved hands. They were making the kind of small-talk Sam assumed was common among soldiers; complaints about meal quality, debates over weapon preferences, the degree of success of recent encounters with females in social venues, the recent annoying policy change delivered by some idiot in a management position they didn't deserve. It was the kind of casual talk men of violence used to distract themselves, to avoid thinking about the next potential fatal event which would inevitably present itself.
"Woah, what the—"
Sam froze, nearly at the threshold, and directly between the two soldiers as the one on his left snapped to fully alert, his firearm at the ready.
"What is it?" The Soldier to Sam's right followed the lead of the other soldier, sweeping his eyes and rifle side to side, seeking an unseen threat.
"I don't know.... Thought I saw something..."
"What?"
"Dunno..."
"You been drinking Deak?"
"What? No... Shut up Javi. Wait, there it is again!"
Sam didn't stop this time, he slipped from sidewalk to lawn, out of the radius of the porch light and into the evening shadows, stepping high enough to avoid the hissing of shoes sliding over blades of grass. He glanced over his shoulder to see one of the soldiers, waving his hand through the air where Sam had been, as though grasping at cobwebs. Sam stood still, watching for a dozen breaths, until a grey van with no windows or markings pulled into the driveway. A side door opened and two people stepped out, each holding a box with an antenna array
moment of truth...
It was probably a stupid decision to stay—what would Sam do if the scanners locked onto him now? But, in the moment, it seemed better to know now if they were tracking the device or the case. Better to know and deal with it now, than to get surprised in his sleep in a week.
What would he do if the scanners locked onto him now?
The two individuals swept the scanners from side to side, staring intently at the illuminated displays. Both of them pointed at the upper floor of the house, then disappeared into the front door, along with two more armed men who had emerged from the van behind them.
Sam let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding with an explosive exhale. Ella started from the sound, her good eye opening partly to scan the darkness.
"Where are we?" Ella asked in a fractured, sluggish voice, barely above a whisper, "Where are we going?"
Where were they going? Where was he going to take his sister? She needed a place to rest, probably still needed medical care. Where would they be safe? What bout Mom? Who could he go to for help?
different flavors of monsters... What flavor was he? not a sheep. not a wolf... Something else entirely, something awakening—reluctantly, something dangerous.
"Sam?"
That would all have to wait. He turned away from the house and trudged into the darkness. "Someplace away from the monsters, where a dragon can think."
