This time, when I reverse a missile, I aim it right at General Barrera. “You gambled,” I say. “And you lost.”
Then I blow him and all his supporters to tiny bits.
Whitney looks appalled, all the blood draining from her face.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I can see that I took that too far.”
“Are there two missiles in there?” Her grin’s almost evil. “Because there’s another group of soldiers cresting that ridge.”
I really do love her.
She holds my hand as I take them out. The jets overhead keep firing, and I can’t stop them, since I’ve lost my long-distance death-snatching ability. But I do keep absorbing every single thing they lob at me and turning it back on them.
I eradicate every group of troops that comes after me, subduing the entire civil war before it can grow and move against another part of America. I worry about the balance of life and death without something like me actively pruning, but Whitney’s happy with me once we put a stop to this, and that matters more to me now than anything else.
By the time we get home, the news is already announcing that the coup was like all the catastrophic strikes that have happened all over the West—the result of carefully timed and executed covert terrorist attacks. I can’t help my smile. I may not have succeeded in creating the full-on war that I set out to start, but I imagine the current president will spin this into a justification to attack someone.
War is bad.
Warmongers are evil and bring suffering to humanity.
But the suffering itself turns people to faith, and we live better lives with faith. Whitney and I may have to agree to disagree on that.
“You didn’t let her get hurt.” That’s all Whitney’s mother, Abigail Archer, says to me when we return. But the glare she gives us both convinces me to never cross her again.
The next few weeks, while I search for an “aptitude” so I can find a job, I join her family for all their normal holiday things. We make sugar cookies, which Gabe decorates very badly, and Whitney makes into tiny, delicious works of art. I cheat and use water and wind to make really beautiful cookies. Everyone gushes that I’m a natural, and Whitney doesn’t rat me out.
We go shopping, using a small portion of Whitney’s nine thousand dollars, and buy small gifts for all her family members, including Izzy, who, judging by her fiancé’s job, wants for nothing. It baffles me.
“It’s the gesture that matters,” Whitney tells me.
That sends me into a tailspin, since I have no money and no way to get anything for Whitney. I do notice her looking at a few dresses, a pair of jeans, and some boots, and I’m still able to materialize clothing from nothing, so I make her a few new outfits, which her mother helps me wrap.
“Where exactly did you get these?” She appears to be searching the clothing for something. “There aren’t any tags on any of it.” She glances at me suspiciously.
Tags?
“Did you steal them? Just tell me you didn’t steal them.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Actually, I?—”
She pats my hand. “I don’t want to know. Just don’t do anything illegal, okay?”
The human world’s chock full of rules that make no sense. For instance, in order to cut down a tree out in the forest, we have to first procure a license from the government. At least cutting a Christmas tree is a tradition I understand. They celebrate the death and rebirth of their Savior by killing a tree.
“Then, after Christmas, you’ll bring it back to life,” I say. “Right?”
Whitney grimaces.
Her mom and stepfather stare at me blankly.
Gabe laughs and slugs my shoulder. “Good one, buddy. I love it.”
No one answers my question, and I feel too stupid to press further. While walking around the property, I don’t see a row of trees in progressively larger sizes, so if they do bring the dead tree back to life, they must not plant them near the house.
But the Christmas tradition I look forward to the most is definitely when everyone gathers to eat dinner on the eve of Christmas. I find that I quite like eating, and I’ve been looking forward to this meal, where I will meet all the members of Whitney’s family and be presented as her boyfriend.
As Christmas Eve finally dawns, I’m as excited as I imagine the kids who believe in the fat criminal are.
