Exiled_Kenly's Story Read online

  At least, what I thought her words meant. I was still working on figuring out all of the Irish and British slang words, and what exactly they meant. According to Willa, the slang of both countries, and the many areas within them, had mingled over time, leading to a much broader use of terms that had once been restricted to regional dialects. Given the huge range and the strangeness of it all, I was struggling to keep up. I catalogued the terms she used and my inferences of their meanings, but had yet to attempt actually speaking the lingo for fear of insulting someone.

  “Let me finish this order, then I’ll come have a cuppa,” Willa promised.

  The boy with the dyed tips shifted on his barstool so that he could see both Willa and me. He was trying to be inconspicuous as he eavesdropped on our conversation, but I could tell his interest was piqued.

  Now that he was turned, and I could see more of him, I had more facts for the mental file that I’d started the instant my eyes had landed on his spikey hair. Before the spiky-haired boy could blink once, I input every detail of his appearance, demeanor, and actions into my mental hard drive, and made an assessment. Dangerous but not threatening.

  The danger was partially in his inquisitive stare. It lasted for seven seconds, which is longer than it sounds. And definitely longer than a customary glance. I don’t possess the ability to feel the presence of other Talents, the way some people do, but instinct and experience told me that he too was Talented—a contributing factor in my ‘Dangerous’ assessment. Regrettably, neither those same instincts and experience nor my Higher Reasoning skills gave me any clue as to his specific abilities.

  Wired to be logical and analytical, strictly dealing in facts—rarely assumptions—I was reluctant to guess his Talent. The problem with blind guessing in a situation like this was that an incorrect guess could lead to a false assumption. Which could hurt me later. Reluctantly, I left the Talent column blank in the mental file I was compiling on the boy at the bar. The assessment, consideration, determination, and filling out the file, all had taken place in mere seconds.

  “Sure, sounds great,” I replied to Willa, who was waiting for my answer.

  To her, the pause in our conversation was insignificant. She smiled and turned her attention back to the steaming food on the flat-top in front of her.

  Sometimes it was really weird having a brain that ran like mine did; it was almost as if the world moved in slow motion, but I was stuck on fast-forward.

  Though I’d answered Willa, my focus was still on the spikey-haired boy. Since he was no longer observing social etiquette, not even pretending to be subtle as he took my measure, I openly stared back. His posture was relaxed. His eyes, one the same color as his dyed tips and the other just a shade lighter, were friendly and interested. Not interested in a romantic sort of way, not exactly. I didn’t have a lot of personal experience in that department, but I’d studied kinesiology and had seen enough of the guys at school ogle Alana to know the difference between a romantic look and a curious one. This was a curious look.

  The boy flashed me a grin before returning his attention to the match playing on the wallscreen. While I was fairly confident that he meant me no harm, the unwanted attention left me feeling jittery. I had to reconsider the potential threat this boy posed. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I was supposed to be in hiding. I couldn’t afford random strangers asking questions about me, or inquiring as to why an American teenager was on her own so far from home. This was a challenge nearly as large as evading the UNITED agents.

  A collective groan from the bar patrons temporarily distracted me from my thoughts.

  “Fecking O’Banion!” Tug swore loudly and shook a fist at the wallscreen. “Stop acting the maggot! Quit gawking and use your eyes for something useful!”

  I caught Willa’s gaze through the order window and we both smirked. Tug was an avid football fan, and acted as though his advice and criticisms would actually get through the screen to the players. Whenever the London Legends, his favorite team, were in a close match, his eyes remained glued to the screen, no matter how many customers were in the bar. Tonight was no exception. Giraffe regulars understood and accepted this.

  Without warning, a long, shrill beeping noise blasted through the speakers mounted throughout the bar, making me wince. Gray and white static replaced the legion of sweaty soccer players, running back and forth on the wallscreen, followed by the words Breaking News Alert in flashing red letters. The words faded and a female correspondent in a sleeveless fuchsia sheath and matching lipstick took center stage.

  “I am standing in front of the Manhattan base for UNITED—the international agency responsible for those with Talents—where we have just learned that a group of Created Talents are holding the workers hostage.” The reporter gestured behind where she was standing, and the camera panned out until a black glass skyscraper came into view. Military men and women peppered the street and sidewalks in front of the building. “We’ve been told that UNITED’s top officials are in contact with the assailants, who have yet to make any ransom demands. UNITED spokeswoman, Victoria Walburton, released a statement just minutes ago.”

  The view on the wallscreen changed from the scene in New York to a blue screen with a picture of Walburton herself. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen her image, but I’d never before heard her voice. When the audio recording of her statement began playing, I immediately recalled everything I was told about the power-hungry head of UNITED; she sounded every bit the evil, disaffected woman I’d been warned to avoid. White words appeared on the screen, captioning her well-planned speech.

  “—the appalling situation in Manhattan. The safe release of the hostages is the organization’s top priority, but UNITED will not negotiate with terrorists.”

  Terrorists?! The Created—me included—were now being labeled as terrorists? This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening.

  I felt the blood rush out of my face, knew that if anyone looked my way there would be no hiding my shock. Nausea rushed over me. Inhaling deep breaths, I fought the bile threatening to come up my throat. What have they done? I thought. I wanted to bury my head in the sand, turn back the clock, do something, anything that would make this situation go away.

  Shock and dismay gave way to a crashing realization. As a terrorist, I’d never be able to go home. Never see my mother again. Or hang out with my friends.

  Intense loathing ate at my stomach like a corrosive acid. UNITED: the malicious organization who’d attacked D.C., who’d killed so many of my innocent colleagues. UNITED: the reason I was a fugitive, alone in a foreign land, unable to ever see my friends and family again, incapable of living a normal life. UNITED: my worst enemy.

  I hated them and everything they represented. The organization was supposed to protect people like me, protect all of the Talented. They were supposed to help the world understand that we were not freaks of nature, that we mean no harm to those without Talents, that we were not a threat to anyone. Instead, they were a destructive force. They’d demolished TOXIC, toppled the American government. And now, they were hunting us. Hunting their own kind. It was unthinkable.

  Not actually their own kind, a voice inside my head reminded me. The Created, what Director McDonough had helped me to become with aid of the Creation Drug, were superior to the Talented in every conceivable way. The drug had allowed us—the lucky few chosen to receive the injection—to reach our full potential. To embrace more power than any one person had possessed in decades. No longer were we limited to just one or two abilities. Our Talents knew no bounds. And that scared UNITED. Just as the non-Talented populace had felt in the years immediately following the Great Contamination, UNITED feared what they didn’t understand and could not control. What a bunch of damned hypocrites.

  Relax, Kenly. Stop reacting. You can’t let your emotions show. They’ll see. They’ll know.

  Taking in deep breaths, I fought to contain my fury and outrage.

  Tug ambled over with my tea. I swallowed the
pain that burned my throat every time I thought about why I’d come to London. My eyes stung with unshed tears of anger. Setting the cup and saucer on the table, Tug squinted in concern. My agitation must have still been apparent.

  Crap.

  “Tragic, isn’t?”

  “Tragic,” I echoed hollowly, not quite sure what exactly Tug found tragic about the situation.

  While I’d become friendly with Tug and Willa, I had no idea how they felt about the Talented, much less the Created. I’d shared many long conversations with both of them, but the subject had never come up. I couldn’t risk revealing that part of me, in case they shared the mindset of most people in London regarding Talents.

  In my short time here, I’d overheard enough talk to know that most of the populace had a low opinion of Talents to begin with. But more than that, TOXIC’s implementation of the Creation Drug—a chemical that had been outlawed by UNITED years earlier—was causing fear and anxiety among the city’s residents. I’d debated relocating to a more accepting country, even researched alternative locations, only to realize the panic was a worldwide phenomenon. I didn’t understand it. We weren’t dangerous. We weren’t monsters. And yet, the universal fear suggested most thought that we were.

  Director McDonough had made the controversial decision to inject TOXIC operatives with the Creation Drug as a first step towards creating a world in which anyone could be Talented. He’d wanted to show the world that the drug was safe, and that the benefits far outweighed the detriments. For some reason, few, if any, supported TOXIC’s goal of mass dissemination of the Creation Drug. This baffled me. Why not? What was so wrong with having special abilities? If everyone could just experience the thrill, the rush that accompanied using Talents, they would feel differently.

  Tug didn’t linger or comment further; he returned to his perch behind the bar to watch the rest of the newscast, leaving me to wonder what he found so tragic. In that moment, I decided I needed to be more careful around him, until he revealed his true stance on the Talented.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the front door swing open and a couple enter the Giraffe. The girl appeared to be maybe eighteen or nineteen, with pale blonde hair and even paler skin. I pegged her companion as slightly older, probably only a year or two. The tight set of his jaw and swirling platinum eyes gave off a fierce impression. He was a visibly willing combatant, constantly on the lookout for his next fight. I’d seen that look before. Nothing good came of it. Platinum Eyes was dangerous—no further analysis necessary to know that. Had the reporter speaking on screen not been cut off for another update at that very moment, I might’ve left right then.

  “We’ve just received breaking information that the chief ringleader of the attack on UNITED’s Manhattan base has been identified. Sources confirm that the leader of this group is seventeen-year old Alana Stillwater. While the purpose behind the attack remains unclear, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Stillwater have arrived on scene and are said to be cooperating with UNITED officials to ensure a peaceful resolution to the standoff in Manhattan.”

  My heart stopped. Oxygen fled my lungs. Nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. I had to wake up.

  Alana. Loyal, sassy, Alana. My best friend. My roommate. Alana had broken into a UNITED facility? She’d never. Not the girl who’d been at school with me, who, along with Francie Owens, had been like my sister. Alana was the make-love-not-war type of girl. She’d hated the required combat classes when we were children and, despite having stronger telepathy skills than mine, had chosen a non-physical assignment for after graduation. We were permitted to select three areas in which to take Placement Exams—the tests that determined where we’d work after graduation from the McDonough School. Alana had only registered for one: Education. It had been a running joke amongst my friends. No one chose Education. It was a post you settled for after you failed to either place somewhere better or washed out of pledging the Hunters. She’d laughed off our teasing and protests, and stuck with her decision. Alana’s gentle nature and sweet, but tough, demeanor made her a perfect fit to be an instructor. She would’ve had the male students eating out of the palm of her hand.

  So, why would she have done this? What was she after? And who had been foolish enough to follow Alana of all people on a suicide mission?

  At least she’s alive, I thought optimistically.

  That was a relief.

  For how long, though? How long would UNITED wait before they gambled with their own people’s lives and sent in a team? Or worse, maybe they’d just blow up the entire building and be done with it. That was more their style. UNITED won the attack on D.C. with sheer numbers alone. They weren’t better, there were just more of them. Our people had been stronger, faster, and with Talents unquestionably more formidable.

  Except, having gifts is only an advantage if you know how to use them. Which many of our side had not. There hadn’t been time for training with our amped up skills, let alone time for learning how to use the entirely new ones. The Creation Drug gave us an advantage when it came to one-on-one combat, but it hadn’t made up for our limited number of skilled fighters.

  A light clicked on inside my head, illuminating the obvious. The Creation Drug. Alana and her posse were after the Creation Drug. In the days leading up to the attack, Director McDonough had given lectures on the importance of disseminating the drug to the masses. Alana was just trying to finish what he’d started. Of course, infiltrating a UNITED embassy at the start of a work day and taking hostages was a horrible way of fulfilling his legacy. Why there? Why now?

  I had no idea what happened after I left D.C, and no source of intel within the Talented community. This was a huge challenge while running—the lack of incoming information. Everything I really wanted to know wouldn’t be publicized on worldwide news. But, assuming UNITED had recovered TOXIC’s supply of the drug at some point, or the formula used to make more, it wouldn’t be stored at the US embassy. More likely, they had it under vault and biometric key at their headquarters in Bern, Switzerland.

  Of course, even on the off-chance that anything was worth stealing in Manhattan, why didn’t Alana plan a clandestine operation? I didn’t need to use my super-computing brain to know that a night raid would’ve been their smartest choice. Alana and her team could have searched the building at their leisure, without the complications of taking hostages and without UNITED forces banging down the door the whole time. Sure, hostages could be vital bargaining chips or sources of information when necessary, but, in general, they only muddied up operations. Especially in this case; they ensured Alana and her team wouldn’t be leaving Manhattan, unless it was on a UNITED hovercraft.

  For heaven’s sake, how reckless was she? Didn’t she realize that this was no way to honor the Director and his goals? No, of course she didn’t. Alana had been far more interested in parties, and boys, and just about any other distraction she could find, than really being a part of TOXIC. She’d been apathetic to the entire organization. Yet, somehow, Alana, of all people, was the first to attempt a hostile takeover of the enemy’s lair. It was the very definition of ironic.

  “Alana, what have you done?” I muttered to myself, under my breath.

  Not-so-subtle throat clearing from right beside me tore my attention away from the scene still unfolding on the wallscreen. I blinked, and found Willa standing next to the table, a to-go container in her hands. Her smile was pleasant but strained, and her eyes kept darting to the bar.

  The young couple I’d seen earlier had joined the spikey-haired boy. Shit. I’d lost track of my surroundings while the watching the newscast. Sloppy, sloppy. Lapses in vigilance were going to be my undoing. I had to be more careful. Especially when everything about the guy with the platinum eyes told me he was dangerous.

  The trio was talking quietly amongst themselves and didn’t seem to be paying attention to anyone else in the bar. Including me.

  So engrossed in what was happening back home, my surveillance had failed altogether. I’d even mi
ssed that another guy and girl entered the Giraffe at some point. They were now occupying a table meant for four near the bar. Failing to notice their arrival was especially bad form, because they stood out like two brand-new, shiny pennies in a jar full of tarnished copper. Unlike the normal clientele—mostly older men with hard faces and eyes that had seen enough for two lifetimes—these two were polished upper-class perfection. Even the other young adults who came in to the Giraffe were rough around the edges: worn-out jeans, threadbare shirts, and holey sneakers.

  “Here’s your to-go order,” Willa said pointedly, handing me the Styrofoam box. She emphasized the word while deliberately tilting her head.

  My eyes followed her gesture to the bar. Spikey-hair guy laughed at something the pale-faced girl said.

  “What’s wrong, Willa?” I asked, pitching my voice for her ears only. Even while carefully watching her for some clue as to what was happening, I kept the three at the bar in my periphery.

  Willa began to fidget, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back again. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear with one hand, the food container clutched tightly with the other. Her short, unpainted nails turned dark pink from the effort.

  My eyes swept the bar, searching for the source of Willa’s agitation. The teens were goofing off, being stupid even. But most importantly, they weren’t looking in my direction. Not even an occasional glance. Interestingly, the same couldn’t be said for the guy whose entrance I’d missed.

  Deep golden brown eyes watched me over the top of his companion’s head. His slacks were black or extremely dark navy and perfectly pressed. His button-down was crisp, despite the swampy weather outside. And his shoes were shiny leather loafers. What was he doing in a dive like the Giraffe?