It’s possible my family demanded answers, though I doubt they would’ve been bothered by the loss.
I can picture it.
Father would glance up from his papers long enough to absorb the news. He’d scoff at the inconvenience, then return to work and pretend I never existed in the first place. Mother would cry when the effects of her wine faded, but it would mostly be for show. She’d fill another glass and drown those tiny drops of compassion left in her blood, and life would continue as it always has.
No, it’s safe to say no one is looking for me, and my world is better for it.
Now I just need to figure out the best plan to get inside the city. My fake ID has worked plenty of times in the past. Hells, unless I was on official business, I used it more often than my real one, but I’ve had no communication in months.
Things could’ve changed. IDs could’ve been updated or new databases implemented. With a military that hasn’t changed procedures in decades, those are low risks, but they’re still possibilities I have to consider.
My power could get me inside, but only as a last resort. If the wrong person recognized what I was doing, it wouldn’t end well, and I need to be at full strength. Influencing the biker drainedme dry, and replenishing takes time. Resting until tomorrow is another option, but I never did well with waiting.
Deception will have to do.
Less flashy, but safer.
Atlanta has been heavily militarized since the beginning. It’s split into four quadrants, with a bustling city center and a dense military presence. Each quadrant has its own unique challenges for someone trying to blend in, but the northeastern district is my safest bet.
It’s considered the rear of the city, mostly occupied by civilians, and has no roads running through the wall. Foot traffic travels through a gate tended by lower-ranking guards, and that gate has been my sole focus for the past hour. Most of the traffic has been soldiers on patrol, but there’s been no excitement.
My military leathers creak with every shift, even though the uniform isn’t new. My career was spent mostly inside labs and clinics, where this thicker material would have been overkill. Now it clings hot and restrictive against my skin, a claustrophobic squeeze pressing across my chest.
The smell hits harder. Polished hide and faint oil, mixed with memories of bourbon-coated breath from someone much larger than me.
Panic rises in a slow, familiar wave. I’ve learned some feelings are too big to contain, so this time I don’t shove them back down. I let the flood come, give it life, and allow it to swell and surge through me unchecked.
I take a moment to name each emotion as it crashes in, because things with names and faces aren’t as scary as the unknown.
There’s the dread of being discovered, the haze of not knowing what’s ahead... but underneath it all, the sharpest edge is fear.
Fear that I’m not enough for this.
That I’ll fall short—or worse, that I’ll somehow pull it off.
Fear that the fragile strands holding me intact will come undone and pull me apart with them.
It steals my breath, holding it hostage for as long as I allow it, but when it’s time to tuck it away, I reach for that hidden place inside me.
The one I’ve carved out over a lifetime.
A tomb for all the pieces of me that have ever been deemed wrong.
Too much, or not enough.
Both at once.
My shoulders square as I gather the fear and doubt, push them down deep, and close the lid. I turn the lock, seal it tight, and let the key slip away. The sharp edges dull, the ache loosens its grip, and the dread ebbs out of me, leaving only quiet in its wake.
This costume is a cage, but it fits like a second skin.
Smooth expression and smirking lips.
Spine straight but not stiff.
Hips loose and gait relaxed.
Confidence, cockiness, and arrogance in bounds.
