s t i r I dream even as I wake, dream of red lips and slender fingers, dream of eyes, hundreds of eyes, I dream of air and anger and death. I dream Emmaline’s dreams. She’s here. She went quiet once she settled here, in my mind. She stilled, retreated. Hid from me, from the world. I feel heavy with her presence but she does not speak, she only decays, her mind decomposing slowly, leaving compost in its wake. I am heavy with it, heavy with her refuse. I am incapable of carrying this weight, no matter how strong Evie made me I am incapable, incompatible. I am not enough to hold our minds, combined. Emmaline’s powers are too much. I drown in it, I drown in it, I gasp when my head breaks the surface again. I drag air into my lungs, beg my eyes to open and they laugh. Eyes laughing at lungs gasping at pain ricocheting up my spine.
KENJI
It’s been four days. Four days of nothing. J is still sleeping. The twins are calling it a coma, but I’m calling it sleeping. I’m choosing to believe J is just really, really tired. She just needs to sleep off some stress and she’ll be fine. This is what I keep telling everyone. She’ll be fine. “She’s just tired,” I say to Brendan. “And when she wakes up she’ll be glad we waited for her to go get James. It’ll be fine.” We’re in the Q, which is short for the quiet tent, which is stupid because it’s never quiet in here. The Q is the default common room. It’s a gathering space slash game room where people at the Sanctuary get together in the evenings and relax. I’m in the kitchen area, leaning against the insubstantial counter. Brendan and Winston and Ian and I are waiting for the electric kettle to boil. Tea. This was Brendan’s idea, of course. For some reason, we could never get our hands on tea back at Omega Point. We only had coffee, and it was seriously rationed. Only after we moved onto base in Sector 45 did Brendan realize we could get our hands on tea, but even then he wasn’t so militant about it. But here— Brendan’s made it his mission to force hot tea down our throats every night. He doesn’t even need the caffeine—his ability to manipulate electricity always keeps his body charged—but he says he likes it because he finds the ritual soothing. So, whatever. Now we gather in the evenings and drink tea. Brendan puts milk in his tea. Winston adds whiskey. Ian and I drink it black. “Right?” I say, when no one answers me. “I mean, a coma is basically just a really long nap. J will be fine. The girls will get her better, and then she’ll be fine, and everything will be fine. And James and Adam will be fine, obviously, because Sam’s seen them and she says they’re fine.” “Sam saw them and said they were unconscious,” Ian says, opening and closing cabinets. When he finds what he’s looking for—a sleeve of cookies—he rips the package open. He doesn’t even have a chance to pull one free before Winston’s swiped it. “Those cookies are for our tea,” he says sharply. Ian glowers. We all glance at Brendan, who seems oblivious to the sacrifices being made in his honor. “Yes, Sam said that they were unconscious,” he says, collecting small spoons from a drawer. “But she also said they looked stable. Alive.” “Exactly,” I say, pointing at Brendan. “Thank you. Stable. Alive. These are the critical words.” Brendan takes the rescued sleeve of cookies from Winston’s proffered hand, and begins arranging dishes and flatware with a confidence that baffles us all. He doesn’t look up when he says, “It’s really kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Winston and I share a confused look. “I wouldn’t call it amazing,” Ian says, plucking a spoon from the tray. He examines it. “But I guess forks and shit are pretty cool, as far as inventions go.”