I should be more afraid than I am. I should be.I should just.Feelmore.I know. I know. I know.
Warner waits until I'm standing in front of him to speak. His small grey eyes flicker over me. A short assessment. His incredibly largearms are crossed over his chest.
"You look like shit, Agent," he tells me.
I stare at him, unflinching. He doesn't expect a response.
Warner drops his arms to his sides. I fight the instinctive urge to go for a weapon. It's a pointless response. Not because Warner wouldn't hurt me, because he would and has. It’s pointless because I would never make it out of herealive if I tried. Too many OI agents with guns. And even if that weren't true, I have nowhere to go. OI would track me and find me and kill me. Or worse, they wouldn’t.
Making me kill my brother was a warning shot for trying to escape the first time. I can’t be sure they would see ending my life as a mercy if I ever try to run again.
When Warner turns and starts walking away, I followhim out of the parking garage and into the main building. We don't pass anyone as we make our way to the holding cells. It's a standard OI base, all grey stone and metal. Clean andimpenetrable. No windows. Fluorescent lighting.Smelling like an abandonedhospital.
I want to askWarner what he knows about the blue drug, about my missing time. But he wouldn't answer, and there's a large part of me that doesn't want to know. Whatever they did, and whatever theywill probably continue to do, it doesn't matter. Not really. I don'twant to know what awful thing they've come up with now.I don't need any more terrible truthsfestering like open wounds inside my head.I've learned too many in my life as it is.
There are showers close to the holding cells. Grey concrete leading into grey tile. Warner lets me wash off the blood and grime ofthe forgotten mission. He watches me as I stand under the ice-cold spray, my bloodied clothes piled up at his feet. My body doesn't feel the cold. Not really. I'm no longer sure if that's because of what was done to me by an OI scientist, or if it's a result of what's been done to me every day since then.
It doesn't feel strange to have Warner watch me. Some of the OI agents and guards used to behave as if I should feel somehow humiliated by having them see me nakedin the shower. I don't understand why they think that would bother me. Shame is.
Shame was never something I was permitted.
When I'm done, Warner produces some all-black clothing from a nearby set of lockers. I put them on, not bothered by the dampness.
Warner keeps his eyes trained on me as I dress. Waiting.He looks bored. That's about the best response you can expect from an OI agent or guard.
There's a second, once I’m fully clothed, where I look at Warner. He stares back at me, impassive as stone. I nod once. He nods back. Then we're moving again.
Warner takes me to a small containment cell. There are camerasfixedin two of the four corners.I look at each one of them in turn. I remember how, after particularly bloody missions, missions which tore at our deteriorating psyches like feral wolves, Dan would flip off the cameras in his cell.
I shove thoughts of my brother away. He can't help me. He can't protect me anymore. I'm alone in this now.
I nevercould have imaginedhow much of a difference that would make.
My eyes go to the chains dangling from the backwall. I wonder almost absently if Warner will choose to utilise them. I don't look at him. That won't help. That won't stop him. But it'll give me a second longer of ignorance. I'll hear him come for me, but I won't see it.
I'm being very weak today.
For a few endless seconds, Warnerseems to considerchaining me to the wall. I can hear him wavering.It's the sound of a coin spinning on a flat surface. I feelthe atmosphere shiftwhen heultimatelydecides not to do it.
"You've got five hours," Warner tells me. I still don't look at him. This would vex some handlers but not Warner. He doesn't seem to care if I respect him, not as long as I follow his orders. He's a professional, I suppose. But there are plenty of others who think breathing at the wrong volume is an acceptable excuse to try and break me. I don't understand why they think they need an excuse. I really don't understand what they think I have left inside me to break.
When Warner is gone and the door to my cell is bolted shut, I allow some of the tension to bleed out of my shoulders. It's a stupid thing to do. A fragile thing. But I'm tired. More tired than I've been in a very long time. That isn't a good enough reason to let my guard down. It isn't really a reason at all. Dan would be pissed at me.
There is nothing I wouldn't give to. There is nothing I wouldn't give to have him. Here. Pissed. At me.
Here. Here with me.
Alive. Alive. Ali.
I fall to my knees, flesh and bone hitting the concrete floor hard. Dan’s voice isin my head.
Never go to your knees willingly.Never give them that. Never give them anything they'll fight to take.
I press my hands to my thighs, fingers splayed out against the fabric. It feels too soft for this place, for me.
There's a tightness in my chest I don't think will dissipate or lessen. It can only get tighter and tighter and tighter,until everything inside me is twisted up in it.
I close my eyes for a moment, thinking desperately, hopelessly, of my brother.
