I like it. I like not being tethered, constantly, to the mainframe.
I watch the floors tick by on the monitor.
The Reestablishment was so obsessed with the future—so obsessed with constantly advancing technology in terrifying ways—that I think it gave our generation a complex. After the revolution, we established and subsidized programs to encourage people to learn practical trades. It was Warner’s idea. He argued that we had to relearn self-sufficiency as a nation; bring back manufacturing and innovation so that we’d never be so reliant on technology that we’d abandon the building blocks of life. A lot of the kids I used to know are real, bona fide farmers now.
We’re still pretty high tech, though.
The elevator stops at a lower floor, the open doors illuminating a gleaming,sparking laboratory just beyond, where people in technical coats are already bustling across the floor. An older man gets on the elevator, his long black dreads reminding me of a younger Castle. I’ve seen this guy several times around here, especially during my early morning gym sessions. His name tag reads:Jeff.
I shake my head, fighting a private laugh as I say good morning. There’s an overabundance of Jeffs in my life.
Jeff gets off on yet another floor—the engineering lab.
Once he’s gone the elevator slows down, requiring fresh verification. I place my sweaty hand on the biometric scanner again, and then, as we climb even higher, my retinas are scanned before I’ve cleared security altogether. After that we ascend quickly; so fast, in fact, that I’m a little nauseous by the time we come to a halt at the top floor.
The doors ping, opening directly into our living room.
“Hey,” I say, lifting a hand. I step out of the sleek, modern elevator and onto the hardwood floor of our modest, old-world home. Shafts of morning light reach through the windows, illuminating the rooms in the rising dawn. Golden rays gild the edges of fixtures and furniture. A squirrel swishes its tail from the branch of the huge live oak tree in the front yard, beyond which the sounds of life awaken in the street. There’s the distant murmur of voices; the whoosh of a passing car. The birds are loud.
Warner, of course, is quiet.
He’s fully dressed at seven in the morning, sitting at the breakfast table in black slacks and a gray knit sweater,composed even at rest. I thought he was impressive at twenty; at thirty years old he radiates the kind of quiet, effortless power I find aspirational. Even now he looks anointed, his golden hair suffused with fresh sunlight. I know without a doubt that he’s been up since five. Maybe earlier. I see him straight across our small, open-plan house, drinking a cup of coffee. I can smell it from here: black, very black. No cream, no sugar.
Just battery acid.
I kick off my sneakers, placing them on the designated shoe rack before padding toward the kitchen in my socks.
Warner puts down his cup, then the tablet he’d been reading. As I approach, I catch sight of the massive stack of files beside him.
“You should shower,” he says by way of hello.
“No shit,” I say, dropping my gym bag on the kitchen floor. I place my water bottle by the sink and start prepping a protein shake. “Why weren’t you in the gym this morning?”
“Juliette needed me.”
I freeze, my hand on the cabinet door. “She okay?”
“She’s okay,” he says quietly, picking up his coffee cup. “You want to talk about it?”
He hesitates, the mug inches from his mouth, and just looks at me.
“No, that’s cool,” I say, grinning as I mix the shake. “You want to write it all down in your diary later. I get it.”
He puts down the mug. “Rosabelle was asking questions about you yesterday.”
This hits me,pow, right in the sternum. I actually need a minute. Finally, I say, “Asking about me how?”
“She asked the girls if you had the same powers. She wanted to know whether you could heal other people in addition to yourself.”
I consider this a moment, then narrow my eyes when I say, “Did she really ask about me? Or are you just messing with me again?”
“Not this time,” he says, sitting back in his chair.
The girlsis an affectionate shorthand for Sonya and Sara, the twin healers who oversee our HQ’s medical facilities. These days they spend most of their time researching and developing curative technologies, but they started out with Castle years and years ago at Omega Point. I studied under their guidance for a long time; they’re the ones who taught me exactly how to use my power.
“What was she doing with the girls?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“They always oversee the physicals for high-profile transfers.” He says this with a hint of impatience, like I should already know this. “Especially those who’ve entered with injuries.”
