Page 10 of Against All Odds

I spoke the query in my mind. For some reason, the action reminded me of writing code, though Jurrian surely wouldn’t approve of me comparing querying the Source to something so mundane. I imagined the probability assessment as lines of code rolling out on a dark screen.

Chance of Soraya making it home unharmed tonight.

I held my breath. Within seconds, the information flooded back to me, reaching my spirit with a shock.

Chance of Soraya making it home unharmed tonight = 8%.

My heart dropped. Eight percent?! So my instincts about this man were right. But eight was not zero. There was still time to prevent this.

I hesitated for a moment. The driver slowed down to make the turn. He licked his lips, and the way his eyes darkened made me want to throw up.

Chance of Soraya making it home unharmed tonight → increase to 99%.

I’d sent out the query before thinking it through. Jurrian’s warning conflicted with my desire not to see this girl get violated, and part of me still wondered this might all be a sick joke and nothing would happen—

The man’s eyes widened. A harsh gasp burst from his throat, and his arms locked, just where he had to steer to turn.

His body started trembling, muscles spasming in violent bursts. His foot slammed the gas instead of slowing down.

On instinct, I squeezed my eyes shut.

Jurrian had compared probability manipulation to playing a game of The Sims. When you’re still actively participating in life, the odds of something happening at any given moment are determined by multiple factors. But when you’re playing Sims, odds depend on in-game probability. Meaning that if we had Sims with seizures, the chances of them having a seizure at a given moment wouldn’t be determined by flashing lights or stress, but by the built-in math.

Probability manipulation was nothing more or less than hacking the code of a game called life.

Horns blared. Lights flashed. Tires screeched as the car veered and finally slammed into the tree ahead of him at full speed.

The airbags exploded with a sound like gunfire. Steam hissed from the hood. The windshield was a spiderweb of cracks.

Smoke curled from the engine block as the driver slumped sideways, unnaturally still.

For a moment, time seemed to slow down. As if in trance, I zoomed in, searching for the rise and fall of his chest – but I found none. No breath, no movement, not even the faintest flicker beneath his skin. I wanted to throw up despite not having a body to do so. I’d watched enough detective thrillers in my mortal life to know what this meant.

Had I done this?! Was his death the only way to prevent Soraya from being harmed? I had done questionable things in my life, but never murder. But was it really murder if I only altered the probability of a specific thing happening?

I barely had time to process my guilt. Chaos erupted on the road. Cars stopped, people getting out of their cars, rushing to call the emergency number – but I zoomed back in on Soraya. She clutched her chest, her chestnut eyes wide with shock. The poor girl was trembling.

I barely registered the car stopping on the side of the road. A young couple rushed out, the man with a worried frown on his face, the woman with a hand on her baby bump.

“Hey,” the man said gently, stepping just in front of the shaken girl. She flinched, instinctively stepping back. Like a deer in the headlights. The innocence that washed over her was unlike the girl I'd witnessed all night. “Are you okay?”

As if a dam broke, she started crying, with ugly, unstoppable sobs. The man cast a helpless glance at his partner, who gently wrapped her arm around the girl and hushed soothingly.

Sirens in the distance. Ambulance personnel rushed to help the man who was beyond helping while bystanders gathered around the accident. A paramedic checked his pulse, then slowly shook his head to his colleagues. No one seemed to pay attention to my assigned anymore, no one but the young couple with kindness in their eyes.

“Can you tell me what happened, my dear?” the woman asked when Soraya’s crying slowed.

“She used me for a free drink,” she forced out between sobs. “She used me, and then she kissed that fucking piece of shit, right in front of my face. And… and I lost my phone.”

“Really?” I yelled out into the distance, even though neither of them could hear me. “A man just died in front of you, and all you can think about is your own bullshit? You’re fucking selfish – and obsessive, too.”

The two exchanged a confused glance as Soraya continued rambling about Rebekah and her phone.

“Come on,” the man said, walking back to his car to open it. “Let’s get you home, okay? Do you know your address?”

Soraya nodded, tears in her eyes.

“Why are you helping me?” she sniffed when the woman guided her to the car. Her movements were so uncoordinated, the woman had to help her. “I’m a fucking mess.”