Earlier that day:

  “You two,” Alastor’s all but familiar grouchy voice said, “Come to my desk for a moment.

  Still grumbling, Andre and Jacklyn went over to the man’s desk, who laid out three police descriptions. Andre picked one up, “What’re these, Alastor?” he asked.

  Alastor glared at the young man, “These, Mr. Carmichael, are the police descriptions of the men involved with Amesworth before the scandal.” He folded his hands over his desk, “I understand Anastasia hasn’t been the same since then, I can tell she’s troubled.”

  “When’s she not?” Jacklyn scoffed.

  Alastor shot her a glare, causing the woman to look down. He looked back at the two, “I have a feeling there’s a correlation between then and now. I’m entrusting you two to find some sort of connection to these descriptions. If you can find even one, then that would be most appreciated.”

  Andre’s head snapped up, “Appreciated?”

  “Yes.”

  Andre and Jacklyn grinned at each other, and then looked back at the masked man.

  “We accept!”

  _____________________________________________________________________

  Within an under-garage housed a hidden runway for its array of private jets. A long dark track lit by a pair of lights on each side every twenty feet. Anastasia led Andre and Jacklyn—who begrudgingly followed—to the deep blue one at the end. A Blue Collared pilot nodded as the three boarded. Andre and Jacklyn sat at the same table while Anastasia went to the cabin ahead of them, shooting a look over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her. Flustered, Jacklyn blew a strand from her face, shaking her head.

  “Little bitch!” she huffed loud enough for Andre to hear, “’Swear every fucking time…”

  “Would you relax?” Andre said, waving down a stewardess and accepting two glasses of sparkling water. He offered her one. “Believe me, she’s a pain, but don’t get so worked up. Alastor’s trusting us too, remember?”

  “Ta!” she laughed snatching the glass. “Funny you say that after your one –sided brawl yesterday.”

  “I already told him that was on me.”

  “Oh really?” she retorted, taking a sip. She then made a face and spat it to her side. “Huh?!”

  “I was out of line,” He continued, “but we talked and it’s all good now. This stuff happens from time to time, but when it does I recognize I mess up.” He glanced at the door, making a face and taking a drink.

  “I dunno. I’ve seen you two go back and forth a few times more than I’d say is healthy.” She caught his eye in the direction of the door. “And unlike you, she’s privileged enough to get away with it.” Jacklyn said. She popped a couple sticks of gum into her mouth. “You think she takes advantage of him too, don’t you?”

  “Just cause she his so-called ‘kid’? Obviously,” he grumbled, “She nothing more than a brat, plain and simple.”

  Now Jacklyn giggled, resting her elbows on the table, hand under her chin. “Well I know that, but what’d she do to you?”

  “Nothing,” Andre answered.

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s like I said,” he repeated, leaning back in his seat. “She’s a brat. Look at how she treats people, Jacklyn.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that!” she laughed. “I’ve had my fill of being her ring-me-up for a life time. I feel bad for Alastor though.”

  “Cause he gets the worst of it! Man’s done nothing but his best for her, and what does she do? Complain, complain, and whine. C’mon, we heard what happened when we dragged her from Amesworth.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Bitch can’t even say thank you.”

  She chuckled at the slur, “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say that. Though hearing her go from stern teacher to scared little girl was hilarious! I thought she was gonna cry! She was all like, ‘I told you never to call me that’, ta ha ha!”

  The young man exhaled into a laugh of his own. “She really do remind me of our old teacher.” he said, looking out the window, the view of the busy city growing smaller and less familiar. His smile faded, “To be honest I…actually kind of miss those days.”

  She gave him a look, “Wait, you miss being A9?”

  The young man flinched at the name, “Quit bringing that old stuff up, Jackie! And no, I don’t mean that life!” he sighed, “I just mean the simpler days of still dreaming about moments like these,” he felt his tie, looking at it. “To be honest it’s still feel weird sometimes, y’know? These clothes, this plane, this job, all this.”

  “Oh,” She began dipping her tongue in her drink, “To be honest, I could care less.”

  He let out a breath, “Of course you’d say that.”

  “Ok, not my fault Motor City was a shithole! Plus you had the cool nickname…”

  “What’d I just tell you?!”

  She laughed, “Sorry but it was badass! You should’ve kept it.”

  He groaned, “What I’m tryin’ to say is this stuff don’t last forever, ‘specially in our line of work…”

  As he dozed off, he suddenly felt Jacklyn’s foot nudge him from under the table.

  “Hey, knock it off would you/” she said, “don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet on Alastor’s special assignment.”

  ‘Course I ain’t,” he said. He began rubbing his throat, “But if I’m not careful, Alastor might actually kill me next time!” he laughed, leaning back, stretching his arms behind him, “imma get some sleep ‘till we land.”

  Jacklyn looked puzzled, but decided to say nothing and sank back in her seat. She sipped her water again, this time, swallowing it.

  --------…

  Patchwork took out a needle, flicking the tip a few times while eyeing his patients. “When’s the last time any of you boys had a checkup?”

  “Shit, beats me.” Shabazz shrugged.

  “I actually prefer to self-diagnose.” Shakar said placing a hand up.

  “I was told I never needed one.” Xole said confidently. “And to be honest I feel great!”

  Patchwork could only stare at the three, feeling himself grow weak in dismay. They were in a compact box-shaped office with poorly painted clouds covering the light blue ceiling. Walls portraying a lush forest had already begun to splinter and chip with age. Patchwork sat on the only chair in the office, besides that was the examining table and a cabinet above his desk at the center wall. Reaching into it, he took out three weather thermometers, handing them to each person. “Place these into your mouths for approximately sixty-two seconds, from then I’ll determine if your Inner-gi and Talents are to be a threat or not.”

  “Buddy, we don’t even know what the fuck this shit even does!” Shabazz said, “Hell no am I putting that near my mouth!”

  Patchwork rubbed the grays alongside his head, murmuring under his breath. “What this shit does is measure one’s Talent composition level.”

  “Composition level?” Xole asked. He knew it sounded familiar; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Patchwork dug into the cabinet again, producing a circular graph. “Imagine the human body like a circle made of two parts, hard and soft. The hard is seen as tangible, the body’s overall adrenaline, while the soft is the other more abstract half, spiritual energy. These together are what we call ‘Inner-Gi’ or ‘Gi’ for short, aka how we produce Talent. Composition is what we refer to these two things as when we take into account ones offense and defensive capabilities.”

  He took Xole’s thermometer and placed it into his own mouth, waiting before taking it out and displaying the numbers to the three.

  “As you see my total Gi composition is ‘25/75’, so I would be considered to be very weak among my peers.”

  With a shrug, Shabazz popped the thermometer onto his mouth while Xole was handed his back to do the same. He made a face, “You don’t have another one?”

  Taking his opportunity, Shakar stuffed his into Xole’s hand. “Go ahead and take mine.” He turned his attention to the doctor, “I’m quite familiar with needles. My composition is ’60/40’, nothing too special.”

  Xole took his and waited for his results while Patchwork logged Shakar’s numbers into his computer, shaking his head.

  “You know, you three really outta get used to sharing,” the doctor said. “You do know those thermometers aren’t cheap.”

  “You can’t secure more?” Shakar asked.

  “Nope” Patchwork replied, “If I could then we wouldn’t cycle through the same three for everyone who came here.”

  “…”

  Shakar took a look at Shabazz and Xole, whose faces had lost all color, eyeing each other with quivering lips. Finally, Shabazz spat the thermometer out at the doctor, coughing and spitting at the floor with Xole doing the same.

  “THEICE OF THIT!!” he forced through gags, “THUCK YOU!”

  “These readings are rather intriguing” Patchwork said, inspecting at the thermometers he took from the ground.

  “I fink I’m gunna be thick!” Xole moaned.

  Shakar pressed his lips together, feeling a few breaths escape.

  “Hey, HEY ASSHATT!” Shabazz grabbed the doctor by his collar, “What kind of fucking LUNATIC gives his patients USED tools!?”

  “Over a quarter of hospitals in the country actually,” Patchwork said still looking at the readings. “Most health facilities save fifty-percent by reprocessing anyways. Be grateful unlike them I sterilize well.”

  “That doesn’t help!”

  Patchwork’s expression changed briefly. He looked back at the two. “Your name was Shabazz Washington, correct?”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “You don’t gotta say my last name but yeah.”

  “Your readings are very…peculiar.” He pulled up a bar graph on his screen with multiple rows of slight ups and downs with a few small outliers. “You see the average gi composition levels for most collared and non-collared workers usually ranges from ‘40-60’ to 65-35’. Like your friend said earlier, nothing special. Perhaps once in a blue moon you may get someone like me but it’s usually on the defensive front.”

  ‘Yeah...” the man squinted, “Just what’re you getting at?”

  Patchwork then showed the Shabazz’s results on his screen, his line shot up above all the others with the reading next to it;

  INNER-GI COMPOSITION: 90/10

  “Well damn.” He said. Shakar leaned in himself to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He looked back to Shabazz.

  “So you’re the offensive type?”

  Patchwork nodded in agreement. “A rare type at that.”

  Shabazz rolled his eyes, heading for the door. The doctor shot him a glance, “and where do you think you’re running off to?”

  “Water dumbass!” Shabazz yelled over his shoulder, “Or bleach preferably. Ugh, fucking hate hospitals…” his voice trailed off.

  Shakar watched him leave as Xole looked around confused. “Wait, what does that mean? Offensive types.”

  “I spoke of offensive and defensive capabilities earlier. I suppose I should’ve elaborated further.” The doctor said. “The body’s adrenaline works towards their Talent’s primary potency. Attacking and how hard your attacks hit are influenced by this, regardless if your talent is offensive or defensive in nature.”

  Xole nodded, “guess that makes sense. So I’m guessing defense is similar?”

  “Sort of,” Patchwork said, “only in this case, the user’s Talent and body gain greater resilience and endurance thanks to their higher spiritual energy. Not to mention if ones Talent is defensive in nature—let’s say harder skin—then naturally their Talent would be amplified in combat.”

  Now Xole was confused again. “Wait, so this ‘spiritual energy’ affects this talent as well, right?”

  The doctor pointed at him, “Great question and yes, it attributes to higher stamina and a more resilient Talent.” He picked up his graph, flipping it over to reveal another chart. This time it was a dual-lined red and blue graph, the red with a numerous spikes that went well above and eventually declined under the steady blue line. “In short this graph here represents the imbalance between the two, never anything equal. This where you come in, Xole.”

  Xole looked around. “Me?”

  “Yes, your results are even more obscene than Mr. Washington’s.” Patchwork said, “A perfect ‘50/50’, the most rare of all.”

  Xole’s stomach suddenly felt heavy as he remembered Brandon’s machine. He remembered the man saying the same thing, even sounding surprised.

  “Tell me kid,” the doctor gave him a suspicious look, “when did you first manifest your Talent?”

  “Well…I—uh,” he stammered. ‘What am I supposed to tell him? ‘Hi, I’m an alleged mutation who was given the rarest Talent by is dying friend’? What would the others think? Would anyone even believe me? Wouldn’t blame them seeing I still have to remind myself every now and again.’ He gulped. “It’s a long story—uh we should probably talk about this later, uh right Shakar?”

  Shakar looked up from the wall he was posted against, he shrugged. “Well, we weren’t that busy…”

  Xole wanted to face-palm. He looked back to Patchwork, his brain moving a mile a minute. “I don’t really remember if I’m being honest—”

  “Oh that’s fine,” he replied reaching beneath his desk producing what looked like two jumper cables. He tapped them together a few times, sending an electric buzz throughout the room. “Are you familiar with electroconvulsive therapy?”

  Xole could only shake his head.

  “The passing of electric currents through the brain, intentionally triggering a brief seizure in which will alter one’s brain chemistry.” Patchwork said. He tapped the cables together again creating a more vicious sounding buzz.

  “It’s a rather interesting contradiction,” he continued, “you see in order to treat one’s trauma, they are subjected to another said trauma on the brain in order to erase—well let’s be real—replace one’s experience with another. Personally I find performing this procedure bilaterally to be far more effective.”

  Xole gulped, feeling sweat start to roll down his back. He shot a glance at Shakar, who continued to watch. He looked back to the doctor, “so what does this gotta do with me?

  “Trauma, obviously.” He replied. “That is the source of talent manifestation. An event in our lives, physical or mental, triggers a chemical reaction in our brains leaving us with overwhelming regret, some even describing it with the saying of their ‘life flashing before their eyes’.” Standing up, he looked down at the older boy. He in turn took a step back.

  “At that moment our bodies are in perfect sync with our said ‘souls’!” Patchwork said stepping forward, “It is at that moment when we discover our so-called purpose and pursue it like no other because we are driven by such regret never to feel that same trauma again!”

  Xole felt his back hit the door. ‘This guy—he sounds like, like him!’ he thought as an image of Brandon flashed in his mind. The doctor, noticing Xole’s face, sat down and recomposed himself.

  “In my forty plus years of medical experience I’ve always theorized talent user’s brains work backwards.” he held the two cables together now, a loud buzzing riveted throughout the small room, even larger sparks flying past his glowing face. “In short the shock of electrical conductivity to the brain should be enough to mimic the same trauma one goes through during talent manifestation. Now it may take a few tries but were going to keep going until—“

  “NO!” Xole shouted, his hands frantically searching for the door handle behind him. He tried twisting it, only to find it locked. He violently shook the handle as hard as he could, feeling his breath come fast. “No, no, NO! Please, why won’t you people just leave me alone!?”

  Then the door swung open, knocking him back to the floor. He looked up to see Abbas’s wide silhouette and top hat stood before them creating a presence that was nearly as large as the man himself. He made a low ‘hum’ noise stepping into the room he stared straight ahead, finally reaching the middle right in front of Xole, yanking the boy to his feet. He turned his head, “Patchwork, did you take the required test?”

  The doctor said nothing.

  “Then they are free to go.” The large man approached him, burying his chin to look him in the eye. “This is a place of refuge, not bondage. Need I remind you again?”

  Patchwork glared at the man now, “Sometimes I wonder if you understand that yourself.”

  The whole room went dead. Finally Shakar strode out the room casually. Xole hesitated, looking to the two, and then quickly shuffling out the door. Before he got far however, he felt Abbas’s hand clasp his shoulder so hard he almost fell.

  “Young one” he spoke. “Are you going to be alright?”

  Xole suddenly felt his ears flush with humiliation, “yeah, yeah don’t worry.”

  “You need not lie” he looked Xole in the eye, “if you ever feel lost or are in need, call my name and I shall be there.”

  Xole nodded, leaving the two Groundhogs alone in the doctor’s office.

  After leaving Patchwork’s office, Xole entered a door to a large space only to be quickly taken aback. The first thing that surprised him was the sheer amount of light for being in an enclosed space. Getting a better look he saw dozens of overhead spotlights, similar to the ones he’d seen in football stadiums on TV. As his eyes adjusted he almost couldn’t believe them; it looked as if they were in an enormous warehouse store but with a caved roof, rows of stands and booths were set up like an enclosed farmers market as people went about their business from one to the next. He was then greeted by a roar of noise echoing throughout the space in an almost deafening pitch.

  “Whoa,” he could only say, nearly taking a step back only to bump into someone. He heard them say something but before he could reply someone else bumped into him, then another, and another, he became a pinball, bouncing from person to person. His eyes darted for a booth, but all he could see were faces; faces flashing in and out of his sight accompanied by countless smells stuffing his nose, making his head quickly ache. He tried to move, only to realize how hard it was to even breathe in the moving forest of people, nearly falling over. Finally he ducked his head and forced his way to the stands, going to the first vendor he saw and holding on for dear life. He looked up to see an older man in an old yellow vest looking at him.

  “You okay sonny boy?” he asked, his booth swaying left and right.

  Xole gasped, shaking his head. “Nah just…just give me a minute…”

  “You must be new around here.” The old man poured a drink in a cup and slid it to him. “This should ease yer spirit, on the house!”

  Head still down, Xole took the cup and downed about half the drink. It had a bitter sweet taste. “Thanks man.” He said lifting up. The man smiled, he wore glasses and had a bushy gray mustache. Xole looked around, from where he was every stand looked the same, in fact he didn’t even see where he came from at this point. He turned back to the man, “Hey, man,” he took another sip of his weird drink. “Where am I?”

  “Zone 2H, goods and marketing.” He replied nodding at a passing family. “I’m guessing you came from Prime Hill.”

  “Prime what?” he asked offering his cup. The man refilled it and pointed behind Xole, he saw a spiral staircase going in and out of the wall to a windowed booth that stuck out of the cave side, overseeing even the taller walkways.

  “Prime Hill is where the Groundhogs meet up. Planning and recruitments always take place there.” He began polishing his cups with a rag. “To our left is zone 1H, and our right zone 3H, both being the living and residential areas.”

  “Are all the zones this…big?” Xole asked looking above them at the now apparent ‘2H’ markings around the zone.

  “Actually this one here’s the smallest.” He said. “It’s only about an acre and a half large. The residential zones are at least two.” The man paused to look off with Xole, “I know it ain’t the prettiest nor the cleanest, but its freedom.” He chuckled, pouring a cup of the sweet drink for himself and raising it to Xole, who tapped his cup against his, both downing their drinks.

  “Oh by the way, you don’t happen to have a map or kind of directions here don’t you?” Xole asked.

  “Nah, sorry sonny.” The man said. “You wanna head to the central booths, same place I told that business man to go. They’ll give ya a green card and you’ll be all set—”

  “Wait—“

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, sorry go head”

  “Oh I’m done. What was you gonna say?”

  Xole cleared his throat, “I was gonna say what did that man look like?”

  “Oh yeah, he had this white business-looking shirt on and Collar, but his hair was all over the place so it threw me off.” The old man said. “And he cursed a lot too, so much so I thought his tongue would fall right out! You know him?”

  Xole press his lips together, “yeah, but that’s not important right now.”

  “When you see him, ask him to get rid of that Collar when he goes up. Folks on the surface get real weird about Black Collars.”

  “Yeah, will do,” He said looking over his shoulder. The bustling crowd behind him began to disperse, prompting him to get up. “Anyways thanks for your help man, looks like I can go now. Also do you have any more of that juice?”

  “You mean my famous Groundwater!” he beamed, “I’m fresh out but if ya come back I should have a whole new batch ready!” With that, he went to the side of his stand where a little fence was, Xole saw him take out a bucket of carrots and a lime and dump it all into a wooden crate.

  ‘So its carrot juice with lime. Huh, never thought that combo could taste so refreshing,’ He thought. Then he remembered what happened in the office. ‘Can’t believe Shakar left me like that, I mean what? I thought we were cool. Man this just gets more and more confusing.’ He looked off to the center of zone 2H, remembering what the man told him. ‘Let me just focus on getting a green card, then finding Shabazz, though this place is still huge, it might be impossible to find him at this—‘

  ‘SQUISH!’

  Xole spun around at the sound behind him the old man standing there in the produce. His callus filled feet carried moles, protruding thick yellow toenails. He could only watch in horror as the man raised his foot and stomped into the carrot mixture.

  ‘SQUISH!’

  The man looked back at Xole and smiled at him again, giving him a thumbs up. Xole felt the cup fall from his hand…

  ________________________________________________________________________

  “Missing?” Anastasia asked Alastor in her room the day before.

  “During one of your assignments, we’d received word one of our Bodily Talented left for an assignment and never came back.” Alastor replied, “This was before operation P.A.R.T.Y, but it traced back to Empire City.”

  “Did you contact Blue Collard law enforcement?”

  “They told me they could barely keep track of their own men due to the homeless.” He looked at her. “Do you understand tomorrow’s assignment, Anastasia?”

  The woman dazed off, the blurred image of the phone stuck in her head.

  “Ana?”

  She shot up from the bed, glaring. “I understand. Now leave.”

  “…” Alastor turned and left for the door. She followed him.

  “And Alastor?” she said, taking the handle as he turned around. “I told you to never call me that again.”

  ‘SLAM!’

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Anastasia reminisced while loading her weapons, taking doubles of her arsenal by way of an extra change of clothes, packing it all into a silver briefcase in cold silence. She stopped to look at the black tie on her extra dress shirt neatly folded inside. She found herself staring at the clothing and feeling her own.

  ‘Knock, knock’

  “Miss Rosa?” the pilot’s voice came from behind the door.

  “Is it here?” she asked.

  “Yes, straight from the top.”

  “Good. The door’s open. Leave it on the desk on your left.”

  The door quickly opened and the Blue Collard man in a hat placed a dark blue box on the desk. He gave a brief tip of his hat and quietly shut the door. The woman then took it to her bed and placed it in the middle. Opening it, she carefully examined a small contraption; three small silver-chrome colored rings laced to another one large enough to fit around her wrist. Clipping it over her left, she slid her index, middle, and ring fingers through the smaller rings. Her hand trembled, but she took a deep breath and slowly clenched her index and middle fingers under her thumb.

  ‘BA-THUMP!’

  “Gruh!” she gasped, feeling as if her heart had burst and her eyes popped through her skull. Her legs gave, but her hand quickly shot to the bed for support. She panted hard, feeling sweat pour onto the bed. She grimaced, the feeling making her think back to him again. That man.

  ‘This…is nothing!’ she thought, forcing herself to her feet. She inspected the device on her hand again, now feeling a small grin on the corners of her mouth. ‘No, this is perfect. Thank you, Kim.’

  Just then, the overhead PA turned on with a jingle:

  “Thank you for your patience, we’ll be arriving to our destination in just under an hour. Please enter the vehicles stationed at our landing destination after de-boarding.”

  She said approaching the window. Placing her hand on it she saw Empire City come into view. Her hand began to clench, her nails leaving a claw mark as she watched the passing clouds. She looked at the device on her hand again.

  “Plenty of time,” she said beginning to clench her fingers again, “Now, time to get acquainted…”