บท 21: Mitchel

We drove further in silence. After some time, the residential area ended abruptly, giving way to warehouses and storage lots of the port-adjacent zone. The car slowed down and turned into a narrow alley. We moved past a chain-link fence, gates wide open and blocked by piles of snow, and parked in front of an old service depot. Two other cars were parked there. One of them was a black SUV like the one we arrived in, and the other was an ordinary gray sedan.

'Out.'

They led me inside the building, spending some time to unlock the rusty metal door. On the interior, the building was one big space, with a ceiling lost somewhere in the darkness. Pillars of light were falling through the dirty windows, illuminating a labyrinth of wooden crates, fishing equipment and large coils of copper wire. It was almost as cold as outside.

The man who ordered me to shut up stayed near the door, and the other one gestured for me to go on. He walked a few steps behind me, periodically giving me directions, like "turn left" or "now straight ahead". The was a shadow of unsureness in his voice, as though he hasn't yet memorized the route completely.

There was a clear space at the center of the building, hidden behind the chaotic maze of crates we just traversed. It was empty aside from a wooden desk with two crates instead of chairs and a big electric heater, which was pumping out hot air with a quiet murmur.

It didn't look like any place I've ever been to before, but somehow I immediately got the familiar feeling of the test chamber. It's what it was: the beginning of a new cell. The PA hadn't had time to properly outfit it yet, but I could almost see how this place was going to look in a couple of weeks.

'Hello, zero six eleven. My name is Corey.'

I flinched. The Protector... my Protector... was sitting on one of the crates. She looked like she always did, only somehow even more sinister. No, not exactly the same: her right palm was bandaged, clean white gauze almost shining in the twilight of the service depot.

There was a man beside her, standing almost seven feet tall. I knew from the arrogance on his face that he was a high-ranking Protector, too. A modern templar like her. Strong, intelligent. Dangerous.

But, other than that, they were nothing alike. Where my Protector was composed and relaxed, this one was all tension and sharp edges. If she was mercury, he was an armor-piercing tungsten shell. A tank buster. His clothes were different, too. More expensive, more eye-catching. Flashy.

What an asshole.

'I'm Mitchell. Have a seat.'

Same TV accent as the two goons who dragged me here. So, Mitchell was their boss. What were they doing in my city?

I sat down on the crate opposite the Protector. Mitchell's man stayed behind me, out of sight, but I could feel him watching me. It was another manifestation of the Ability. Strong wraiths could sense someone's intent focused their way, could even trace it back to the source. That's how I knew that the guy standing behind me was ready to shoot me in the back of my head if I did something stupid.

So, let's not give him a reason.

'Uh... I don't understand. I had a test, like, a week ago.'

'You will speak when spoken to.'

Mitchell was looming over the Protector, dwarfing her. I tried to read the power dynamic between the two. Who was the top dog here? I couldn't get any hint from the Protector, but Mitchell wasn't as good at controlling his body language. He was trying, unconsciously, to dominate the space, assert his physical presence over hers. Which meant that he was insecure about it. So, equals at least. The Protector, on the contrary, acted like she was indifferent to Mitchell's dominating pose. But that's just how she always presented herself. Zero fucks given.

'Sorry to drag you here on such short notice, zero six eleven. You must have seen on the news that there was a fire near our previous facility.'

I nodded.

'Yeah. What happened?'

She raised an eyebrow.

'Some old wiring shorted out and caught on fire, like they said on the news. Why are you asking?'

Talking to her was like fencing. Some words were meant to unbalance you, some were meant to make you bleed. Each one was a trap. Why would I suspect that the news report was a lie if I had nothing to do with the fire?

'Come on, I'm not a fool. There's a fire in the basement where the test chamber is, and a couple of days later I'm dragged here, practically under gunpoint. This place looks like... a work in progress. The PA doesn't move facilities until the new location is properly prepared. Unless something happens. That's why I asked.'

The Protector was silent for a few seconds. She smiled.

'There was too much media attention at the hospital for our comfort. That's why we moved.'

Should I play stupid? No. They might not know the full extent of my Ability, but they do know that I'm no fool. The Protector doesn't expect me to believe her; she expects me to call her bluff.

'Maybe, but this is not a usual test. It's not a test at all. There are no scans, no DNA samples, no procedure at all. So... what am I doing here?'

Mitchell leaned in.

'You talk too much, wraith boy.'

I glanced at him, uncomfortable. That's not how Protectors talk. They never use the word 'wraith'. That word is poisonous, it colors your perception. And the PA is obsessed with objectivity, the purity of their science. Is he really a bully, or is this a simple good cop, bad cop routine?

'You're right, zero six eleven.' The Protector shrugged. 'This is not a test. We're conducting an investigation into the fire.'

I did my best to look puzzled. And my best is the best.

'Why? You said it was just some old wiring.'

'Yes. But why did it catch on fire? Maybe it was just a short circuit. Maybe someone helped it along. That's what we're trying to find out.'

'Oh.'

She might have been telling the truth. In other circumstances, I would have believed her. But there was one thing that cast a shadow on her reasoning: Mitchell and his people. The foreign operatives. They had no business being here, not for a simple fire. A Category One symptomatic wraith who fled the Farm, on the other hand... that would justify it. So did they have him in custody or not?

If they did, this might be a cleaning mission. If they didn't, they were just fishing or narrowing down the pool of suspects.

'What do I have to do with it?'

Mitchell crossed his arms.

'You're Category 5. Strong enough to cause trouble. We're interviewing every local GA like you.'

'Where were you in the evening, three days ago?'

My mind was racing. If he was telling the truth, they were talking to every strong wraith in the city. Half a dozen of us, if Mickey is right, every one monitored by the Protector herself. They would probably start with the strongest, as far as they knew. With Mickey, who flashed his C4 status around like a badge of honor. That would explain why he hasn't answered my calls.

What did he say to them?

'Three days ago? I was with some friends at the University. We were, uh... playing some music.'

'What do you mean, playing some music?'

'Well... I'm kinda in a band now. We call ourselves The Coffee Bandit.'

The Protector smiled.

'Really? Good for you, zero six eleven!'

'This is the stupidest shit I've ever heard.'

Mitchel smirked, and I had to stop myself from wiping that smirk off his face.

'Why?'

'What, do you dream about being a musician? Going on tours, banging groupies, bathing in money?'

The corner of my mouth dropped.

'What's wrong with that?'

'Are you a moron, kid? Who do you think will allow you to do that? Do you think we'll assign you a personal Protector to go on the road and perform tests in shitty motel rooms?'

I was a moron, yes. I never even thought about that. In my dreams, I was on the road with Claire. One city after another, music, joy. Me and her alone in the darkness.

Fool, damn fool. They will never allow that.

Mitchel shook his head.

'Little bastards like you should know their place.'

I looked at him with badly concealed anger. He was antagonizing me, trying to make me lose my cool. Or he was just a complete jackass. Either way, it was working.

The Protector gave Mitchel a cold look.

'Anyway, zero six eleven. Did you play with your band the whole evening?'

'I guess so, yes. No, no wait. We went to the cafeteria after. Stayed there until midnight.'

Mitchel stared at me, strange tension in his eyes.

'And will these friends of yours confirm that?'

The Protector shifted on her crate.

'No need to involve civilians. The whole campus is wired with security cameras. If he's telling the truth, we'll be able to confirm it.'

It dawned on me that they didn't know shit. They didn't know that I saw Zero, that I met Mickey. That I knew about the self-governance experiment and went looking for its remains. Our trip to the railroad museum remained a secret. They were completely in the dark.

If they had caught Zero, they wouldn't need to confirm my whereabouts at the time of the fire. They would have never considered me a suspect in the first place, because the real culprit would have been in their hands.

I still had the upper hand. I was clear. I was safe.

I was about to relax a little when Mitchel hit me. His fist smashed into my face, sending me tumbling to the floor. There was no pain, yet, just a feeling of numbness spreading across the left side of my face. I felt blood running down my chin.

He dragged me up, his eyes burning with rage.

'You wouldn't try to lie to me, would you, Matthew?'

My first thought was that he was insane. But no, he wasn't. He just knew exactly what he was doing. Because what could I do, fight back? No, of course not.

'No.'

'I didn't hear you!'

I opened my mouth to repeat what he wanted to hear and tasted the saltiness of blood on my tongue.

'Let him go, Mitchel.'

The Protector's voice was flat as usual, but there was something in it that made us both look at her. She was still sitting on her crate, in the same pose, but the polite smile was gone from her face. She looked a little bit tired.

Mitchel chuckled.

'Jesus, Corey. We've all heard tales about your work down south. When the fuck did you go soft?'

She sighed.

'I said let him. Fucking. Go.'

Mitchel dropped me. I hit the floor hard, tried to sit. Tried again.

He lifted his hands, defensively.

'Hey, whatever you say, Corey.'

I remembered our conversation in the bar. The one when she showed me the photo of Zero. She said: "Was anyone bothering you?". I thought she was talking about the man in the photo, but no. She wasn't talking about Zero, she was talking about Mitchel. So, not just equals. There was animosity between them. She didn't like him working in her city. Investigating her wards. Putting his hands on us.

And he was fucking afraid of her.

I needed to remember that. It was a priceless piece of information. One I could use later.

The Protector looked Mitchel in the eyes.

'Why don't you go take a breath of fresh air, Mitchel? I'll finish up here.'

There was a subtle, but frightening threat in her voice. He stood there for a second. Angry, humiliated. His fists clenched. Then he put on a happy face and smiled.

'Yeah, sure. No problem.'

When he left, the Protector stood up. She walked over to where I was sitting on the floor and squatted beside me. She reached into her pocket awkwardly, using her left hand, and pulled out a white handkerchief. With it, she wiped some blood from my face, and then handed it to me.

'Here. For your nose.'

I took it and pressed it to my nose, trying to stop the bleeding.

She helped me to stand up and dusted off my clothes.

'Don't mind my colleague, zero six eleven. Mitchel is the kind of man who likes to scare people. Guys like him like to puff their chests, make everyone see how big they are. Don't be afraid of Mitchel.'

She took me by my shoulders and turned me to the foreign agent, who was still standing there, waiting to take me outside.

My face was starting to burn.

The Protector looked at me with concern. Then she said:

'But me? You should fear me, zero six eleven.'

There was no humor in her cold, cold eyes.

'Because if I ever learn that you lied to us, I'll come for you. And, unlike Mitchel, you'll never see me coming.'

... Back in the car, when the bleeding from my nose stopped, I looked at the handkerchief she gave me. It was soaked with blood, more red now than white. There were initials sewn into the corner.

"A.T."

She slipped. She made a mistake, for the first time in three years. No matter how small, she gave me a real clue about her identity. Sitting there with my face on fire, cracked lips coated with blood, I closed my eyes. And smiled.

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