Sunday, June 2, 2019

PHOBETOR

To be entirely honest, I was a little hesitant about sharing this short story with you all because it is part of a modern science-fiction book that I've entertained since high school (a good five years).
This is actually the origin story of a character who won't make an appearance until book two, ideally (once I actually begin writing the series), but I wanted to write his origin story as it is actually crucial to the events of book one. 
What are those events, you ask? I won't tell you. Not yet. And probably not for a long time, but you can still enjoy this short story as a standalone without knowing what is happening. I wrote it for my creative writing class this last semester. It's about an anti-villain (not the hero or protagonist, not really a good guy, but a character who is against [anti] the villain). Warning: it's not happy, so if you're looking for a happy story, I suggest you check out some of my other stories, such as "The Fortune-Teller's Daughter" or "The Gray Wolf and the Firebird" that do end a bit happier.
You've been warned. 

Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

PHOBETOR

Silence followed the initial sickening crunch of metal, and then the brief sensation of weightlessness as the car hurtled side over side down the embankment. Glass shattered into thousands of lethal shards and the wall caved in at a horrendous angle as the world abruptly ceased its spinning and went entirely black.
Ransom Osborne awoke in a cold sweat in the small hours of the morning. He worked his stiff jaw, every muscle in his body taut, his skin beaded with salty droplets and sweat dripping from his hair. By the roughness of his throat and the dryness of his mouth, he knew he had been screaming again.
He blinked, absorbing the darkness of his room and the obscured details. Bookshelves proved scarcely more than looming shadows along the walls, and the photographs housed there were merely blacker shapes among the darkness.
            Sliding out from the comforting warmth of the quilted blanket, he padded to the tiny bathroom adjoining his bedroom and twisted the knob of the lamp inside, flooding the space with a yellow glow with a faint click.
            He first checked the mirror, holding a finger to the glass. Tension eased in his shoulders as he saw the gap clearly between his nail and flesh and their mirrored counterparts. Splashing cool water on his face, he examined his complete reflection: brown hair in overgrown army fashion, unruly on the top from sleep, violet circles ringing gunmetal blue eyes, a lean and muscular body, skin clammy from sweat, and finally the dog tags hanging from a ball chain around his neck, the thin pieces of metal cold against his skin. His hard gaze softened when it fell upon the thin circle also hanging on the chain; his heart thrummed with steady aching. Then he began his ritual of counting scars.
            There were too many to replicate, and they were too specific for his subconscious to recall perfectly despite his conscious memorization of them all, and therefore, they served as a reliable reality-check.
            He counted the bullet hole on the front of his left shoulder located just below the subclavian artery; the jagged knife wound on his lower right side, above his hip. The mark on his knee from a second-grade bike accident. Then the more recent, ovular scar from where his collarbone snapped under the pressure of the seatbelt and the shattered end punctured his skin; his fingers ran along the slight, lingering bulge infused into the mended bone. His gaze shifted to the long, precisely straight surgical incision in the center of his abdomen where doctors had repaired the internal damage. It shone pale in the light, the color emphasized by the shadows created by the inconsistent light along the ridges of hardened muscle. Turning, he noted the scar running along his spine, twin to the one on his abdomen, where the doctors from Airmid repaired his spinal cord. He then pushed his hairline aside and traced the white, elevated scar hiding beneath the roots on his scalp. Moving downward, he traced the jagged scar in the fleshy part of his thumb and grimaced at it smugly, savoring his short-lived stick-it-to-the-man moment.
            More he counted, finally numbering the small white scars marring his wrists, drawn by his own hands.
            All there. Perfect in their imperfection, whole and real. Only then did the tension fully recede into the shadows to lie, awaiting his next waking, anticipating the following moment of doubt.
            Switching off the lights, he blindly navigated the open space of his room to the door, unbolted it, and slipped outside into the basement hall. With no light, Ransom traced the wall with an outstretched hand as he walked, his footfalls utterly silent, eerie and phantomlike. He needed no guidance; he knew the sublevel, as well as the upper floors of the house with assure perfection, the same way he knew the time without a clock. 04:32 a.m. Thus was the extent of his programming.
            His fingertips detected a slight bend in the wall, a crevice that revealed another room, one of many spare bedrooms and medical examination rooms housed belowground, all filled with sophisticated technology belied by the humble exterior of the house, which to unfamiliar eyes appeared a quaint farmhouse outside Amish country in upstate New York. Not a military-grade safe house dating back to the Cold War with a bunker beneath fortified to withstand a bomb if necessary.
            When he reached the end of the long hall, he slid open the double doors to the gym at his left; turning right lead to the kitchen and stairs to the ground level of the house.
            Once inside, he pressed one switch in a panel of many, illuminating a corner of the vast gym. An oblong bag dangled from chains from the ceiling, the floor beneath it covered in thin padding. Along the wall hung six sets of gloves: two men, two women, and two mismatched pairs with permanent bite marks along various sections of the material, leftover from his golden retriever, Captain’s, puppy days. Ransom eyed the gloves but instead wrapped his knuckles with thick fabric and proceeded to pound at the bag, incorporating different maneuvers from boxing to krav maga to sambo, all the while envisioning invisible enemies instead of the bag before him.
            Jab after jab he threw with balled fists and elbows. He struck with his feet, his knees, his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet, twisting and ducking, panting in ragged breaths.
            Without warning, the masked face of one of his imagined enemies transformed into her—haunted olive green eyes, translucent skin stretched over gaunt cheekbones, dark crescent moons of the dead beneath her staring eyes, her red hair matted with wet blood, and a thick, crimson line dripping down her face. A bit of dark blood dribbled from her cracked lips down her jaw, dropping onto her striped blouse.
            Ransom redirected his punch, throwing it wide as, off-balanced, he stumbled into the bag, hitting the solid and unyielding surface with his shoulder. It swung, and he clung to it, panting hard, his eyes squeezing shut against the memories, but they fought through the walls.
            They always did.
*          *          *          *          *          *          *
            “Are you two ready to order?” Their waiter, a tall, thin young man in his twenties with a clean shaven face and Italian features seemed to materialize out of thin air.
            Jenna leaned back and looked from waiter to Ransom, her slender eyebrows quirking upward in silent question, an amused expression on her freckled face. She was radiant tonight, Ransom thought, in a simple striped blouse, black jeans, and the combat boots she adored. Her dark red hair hung loose about her shoulders, framing wide cheekbones.
            Opening his menu, Ransom rapidly scanned the pages for something—anything—that looked remotely appetizing. Not that he could eat anything when at least a hundred butterflies fluttered in his stomach, but he forced himself to act natural; Jenna couldn’t suspect anything. Smiling, he ordered one of the many variations of steak meals, folded the menu, and handed it to the waiter, willing the tremor from his hands.
            “And you, ma’am?” The waiter turned his focus once more to Jenna.
            “I’ll have the chicken ravioli with alfredo.”
Ransom sipped one his water and, once the waiter disappeared around the corner, teased, “You sure about the pasta?”
            Jenna shot him a playful glance. “I’ll run it off tomorrow. Were you and Trayce able to figure out what’s wrong with your bike?”
            “Nah, this guy brought in a truck in dire need of some engine work. It took us most of the day to fix. Trayce said he’d check out my bike in the morning, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the spark plugs. I’d do it myself, but I didn’t have the time.” He raised his glass for more water, his mouth unusually dry, but paused, the cool rim against his lips as the gentle notes of a piano wafted down from the overhead speakers, soft and tender. Automatically, the calloused fingers of his free hand began to finger the tune on the edge of the table, picking out each chord, note, and trill, the seventeen years of piano lessons ingrained in him so deeply as to enable him to play perfectly by ear, even on an imaginary keyboard.
            When he retreated from his thoughts back into the present and looked up, Jenna was staring at him, her elbows on the table and folded hands propping up her chin. Amusement danced across her lips and in her eyes, which glittered in the candlelight. “I love it when you do that. When you get lost in music.”
            “It was never something I really appreciated until the army. Sure, I played it, mostly because my mom forced me, but I can’t tell you how many nights I lay awake listening to piano music—jazz, classical, anything I could get my hands on—it didn’t matter; it reminded me of home. After I, uh, got shot,” his left shoulder twinged, “Jack brought me my iPod from my tent to the camp infirmary, and I just lay there, listening. That’s when it started.” He sipped from his water glass again, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead. “You know how some people say they ‘feel the music?’ I never felt the music until then, like, actually felt it, as though I could reach out and touch it, and something warm and solid would be there.”
            “What do you feel now, with this music?”
            She knows, he thought, then swallowed his fear. No, she doesn’t. Inhale. Exhale. He willed himself to relax and tuned his ears once more to the delicate notes floating from the speakers buried in the restaurant’s ceiling.
            “Calm, peaceful,” he replied, meeting her gaze with an expression he hoped exuded relaxation though inside him, the butterflies flapped furiously. “Hopelessly in love with you.”
            Bright red roses bloomed on her freckled cheeks, and he offered her a devilish grin. “It’s too easy to embarrass you,” he chuckled, nudging her leg with his foot beneath the table. “Takes all the fun out of it.”
            Jenna’s mouth opened to retort, but another nudge from him sent her laughing, a joyful bubbling sound he adored. Reaching across the table, he took her hand, stroking his thumb across the soft skin of the back of her palm, and squeezed it tenderly before releasing it. They chatted, Jenna sharing about her week at college—she was a journalism major—and Ransom about his week in the shop, until their food arrived.
The waiter balanced a tray with two steaming plates emitting the umami, garlicky, and cheesy aromas of their steak and pasta. Gracefully, he lifted their plates from the tray and set them before Ransom and Jenna.
            “Can I get you anything else?” he asked. Both shook their heads, and the waiter departed, bustling off to buss another table.
            Sawing into his steak, Ransom savored the blend of tangy and savory smells that billowed with the steam from the fresh cut. His stomach growled in response, and he popped a piece of steaming meat into his mouth. The hot juice burned his tongue, but he revelled in it.
            “What do you make of the gentleman over there?” Jenna inclined her head toward a suited man sitting with two others dressed in the same expensive fashion. “They’re dressed a little high-end. Do you think they just came from a business meeting?”
            It was a game they often played; one of them would acknowledge a person or people in their surroundings they thought interesting and try to create a backstory for them.
            Casually, Ransom surveyed the room and took in the first man Jenna indicated. He was clean-cut, his suit definitely expensive and worthy of a businessman in one of the many skyscrapers that defined New York City, but his broad-shouldered frame and trim waist and the gun-shaped bulge beneath his jacket barely noticeable for those unaware of what to look for… “Private security,” replied Ransom, devouring another slice of steak.
            “Hmm,” Jenna pursed her lips, quirking them to the side in what he recognized as her ‘thinking face.’ “I wonder what that’s like.”
            “It isn’t as exciting as you might think,” he replied dully. “Lots of long hours following despicable human beings around, and if someone happens to shoot at them, guess who takes the bullet. That’s not fun,” he feigned a wince and rolled his shoulder, the one a bullet tore through during one of his tours.
“Killjoy,” she muttered playfully.
After they finished their meal, Ransom paid the bill and then guided Jenna down the street toward the park. Although the sun dipped below the horizon while they dined, the glowing, neon billboards and street lamps illuminated the city; headlights from cabs and other vehicles flashed from the street, lighting everything up like a Christmas tree. They strolled down the sidewalk and into the park; Ransom took her hand and led her to a fountain, around which lampposts glowed. Walking through the park was something they did often after eating at that restaurant, but tonight, he caught himself almost racing to reach the fountain, tugging Jenna along. He forced himself to slow down.
When they arrived at the edge of the basin, Ransom reached into his jeans pocket with his free hand and pulled out a couple pennys, which he handed to Jenna.
Her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, and she stared at him quizzically, skepticism brewing just behind her green irises, and his gut squirmed. His heart galloped to the beat of she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows. So what if she knows? He reminded himself. We’re here, after all.
Without a question, she took the coins from his palm and leaned closer to the rim of the fountain, momentarily taking her eyes off him and allowing him the perfect opportunity to slip a hand into his jacket pocket and touch touch the small box concealed within that had weighed upon him like a millstone tied around his body all evening. Taking it out, he opened it, and knelt. The concrete was hard beneath his knee, even through his jeans.
Jenna flipped the pennies into the fountain, the two of them spinning side-by-side and reaching their peaks one after another, tiny suns gleaming bright in the golden lamplight, one cresting just above the other. It fell from its apex first. When she turned back to him after the pennies landed in the gurgling fountain with twin splooshes and saw him, her confusion returned in the creases between her eyebrows for the briefest of beats, and then her hands involuntarily flew to her mouth. Her gaze landed on the ring—a simple, twisted band with a tiny cluster of diamonds. Simplistic, yet elegant. Like her.
“Will you marry me?” he asked, his parched and husky voice barely above a whisper.
Jenna nodded, caught herself, and then replied, “Yes. Yes, of course!”
Rising, Ransom folded her into his arms, relief flooding through him and joy expanding inside his chest, so much that it hurt, and he began to laugh. He clung to her, stroking her back, pressing her into him, breathing in the delicate, floral scent of her perfume, taking her in, willing himself to remember this moment forever.
Jenna pulled back enough to wriggle her arms free enough so that her hands cradled his face. She kissed him, melding her lips to his, and he clutched her tighter. When they parted, she began giggling, a girlish sound that caused his heart to flutter. He beckoned for her left hand, and when she gave it to him, he slipped the ring onto her third finger. A perfect fit.
“Shall we drive to Jersey to tell your parents before it gets too late?” He checked his watch. It read just after 7:00.
Jenna beamed, and with a slight skip in her step, led him to the parking garage where she left her car.
Knowing Jenna preferred not to drive after dark—her depth perception wasn’t terrific at night—Ransom offered to take the wheel, and she handed him the keys.
They had been on the road over an hour, fingers entwined, and listened to a playlist of love songs Trayce sent them after Ransom texted him a photo of Jenna grinning widely at the camera and holding up her hand with the ring prominent. They said little, content to merely sit in each other’s presence and smile at one another.
The road narrowed into two lanes as they passed through a heavily wooded stretch. Rounding a bend, a pair of headlights flickered into view ahead, coming toward them.
Ransom thought nothing of it.
Then, as the truck neared Jenna’s car, it suddenly veered violently into their lane.
Ransom pressed on the gas and swerved in an effort to propel the car out of the way of the oncoming truck, but he was too late.
The truck hurtled into them.
Glass shattered. Metal crunched.
Jenna screamed.
*          *          *          *          *          *          *
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
High-pitched and piercing, and behind it, light notes of a piano.
Ransom groaned, the steady, pulsing sound assaulting his senses. His fingers twitched against soft sheets; every other muscle in his body felt weak and heavy, sandbags lying on the bed in place of a living, breathing human being. His eyelids fluttered open, and groggily, he took in the room, the monitor by the bedside—the source of the annoying and persistent beeping—the cool sunlight seeping in through the gauzy, opaque curtains, the metal trash bin, the counter with a sink and jars of cotton balls and other things Ransom couldn’t distinguish. His head ached, and he closed his eyes once more against the light.
Something thin draped over his ears and pumped filtered air that smelled of chemicals into his nose, and when he swallowed, his throat closed around another tube. Grogginess prevented him from fighting it, and he lay back against the pillow.
A cool hand with slender fingers wrapped around his arm. He forced his eyes open and squinted against the sunlight.
A woman sat in the chair at his side, wisps of curly brown hair fleeing from her bun and framing her thin, angular face. Lilac scrubs adorned her slight frame. Aunt Em.
Tears glistened in her eyes, and she squeezed his arm, a light and firm pressure below his elbow.
Ransom struggled to sit up, but his body refused. When he glanced down, his stomach dropped. Where muscles once rippled, his limbs and torso were thin, emaciated, and atrophied almost to the level of Christian Bale in The Machinist.
Panic sank its claws in deep.
Frail chest heaving, his breath came in shaking pants. The monitor screamed beep-beep-beep-beep in rapid succession as his heart rate spiked. “Em,” he tried to speak around the tube, but only soundlessness escaped from his lips. Em, he mouthed, even as he hyperventilated, the tube down his throat increasing his alarm. His pulse raced. His thin limbs flailed as he clawed at his throat with skeletal fingers.
“Shh,” Emilie said, holding him down by his shoulders. “I’m going to remove the tubes, but I need you to relax. Can you do that?”
Heart still thundering in his chest and ears, Ransom nodded weakly, and his arms flopped to his sides.
Several unpleasant moments passed, and then Emilie disposed of the both the feeding tube and the oxygen mask before she peeled off her latex gloves and discarded them in the metal trash bin.
Relieved, Ransom breathed in air that didn’t taste of chemicals, air he remembered, craved. Meanwhile, Emilie filled a paper cup with tap water from the counter sink. “Here,” she said, holding it to his parched lips. “Drink slowly.”
He obeyed, his foggy mind trying and failing to piece together a single coherent thought.
“What happened?” he croaked at last.
At that moment, a man a little over over six-feet tall with a slender, muscular build and black hair that grayed near the temples stepped into the room. He was dressed simply in a black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and blue jeans. His expression lit up when saw Ransom.
“He’s awake.” Miles Locke’s steady voice resonated through the room, his timbre deep and Leicester accent prevalent, the vowels shallow and elongated.
Turning from her nephew to her husband, Emilie said, “He woke up a couple minutes ago.”
“What happened?” repeated Ransom as Miles took a seat beside Emilie. The effort to speak taxed his entire body. “Where am I?”
His aunt and uncle exchanged hesitant glances, and Ransom’s stomach dropped. His hands began to tremble.
Jenna.
Ransom’s heartbeat raced again as he recalled the final moments, the headlights, Jenna’s scream, and then nothing. “Jenna,” he struggled to sit, “Where is she?”
Gently, Miles pressed Ransom against the pillow, bidding him to be still, as Emilie began slowly, “You were in a car accident. A drunk driver hit Jenna’s car and sent you both spinning into a ditch. It was bad, Ransom. They had to cut you out.” Tears dropped from her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. “The paramedics said Jenna,” she swallowed once, twice, and continued, “said she likely died on impact.”
No. Tears stung Ransom’s eyes, and he was too tired to fight them back. No, no. The room reeled, and his lungs refused to fill. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He pictured the ring, saw it vividly on her finger. She was just alive. Just yesterday. Not yesterday.
Cold sliced through him when he realized that he didn’t know. Long enough for his muscles to wither to nothing...he stilled.
Miles continued when Emilie could not. “The paramedics lost you a couple times on the way to the hospital. You suffered tremendous internal damage, and your spine was broken. You were paralyzed from your chest down. Your brain also suffered so much damage that the doctors at the hospital didn’t think you would ever wake up.”
“How long?” Ransom whispered. “How long was I asleep?”
Miles and Emilie exchanged another glance that ignited fury inside Ransom, so hot it threatened to burn through his skin. “HOW LONG?” he bellowed, his fists shaking violently now and his throat and vocal chords straining.
Miles exhaled deeply. “Nine months.”
Nine months. Jenna had been dead for nine months.
“How?” was all Ransom managed as his rage fizzled out, leaving his cheeks wet with tears and his body exhausted. He longed for sleep, to drift off from this nightmare and wake in the real world, on the morning of the day he planned to propose.
“You were practically in a vegetative state.”
“Miles, are you sure now it a good time?” interrupted Emilie. “He just woke up.”
But Miles dismissed her. “The hospital doctors couldn’t do anything for you. Do you remember Airmid, the project I was working on?”
Ransom remembered. Project Airmid was a medical-based program in the theory stages that Miles and two of his scientist friends, doctors Darien and Malcolm Grimes, biochemists and neuroscientists, and all-around medical and technological geniuses began when writing their doctoral dissertations. Other than that, Ransom knew little about the it.
“I contacted Darien and Malcolm, and they flew in with their team from London and moved you to one of their remote facilities upstate. That’s where we are now.” Miles gestured to the window as though Ransom could walk over to it and look outside. “They repaired your spine, your brain. Generated new tissue growth to repair your temporal lobe. Reconnected your spinal cord and reversed your paralysis. It worked.” Excitement gleamed in Miles’s eyes, and he spoke faster the more it grew. “Ransom, they saved your life.”
“But not Jenna’s.”
Miles stopped mid-sentence, his mouth agape. Then, shaking his head, he replied, “There was nothing we could do. She was already gone.”
At that, Ransom turned his face to the blank wall, closed his eyes, and surrendered to sleep.
*          *          *          *          *          *          *
            After months of treatment and physical therapy at Airmid, Ransom slowly regained his strength and stamina, though his heart, since the moment he opened his eyes, seemed vacant, a gaping chasm left in his chest. Each day he trained harder and harder with the physical therapists and with other patients of Airmid. Then one afternoon, Emilie returned from her home with Ransom’s motorcycle in the back of the truck she and Miles shared.
“Trayce dropped it off at the house a couple days after the accident,” she explained as Ransom surveyed the sleek black Kawasaki Ninja, once his most prized possession. “Miles and I kept it until we thought you were strong enough. I also brought you this,” she stretched out her arm. Between her fingers sat a folded piece of paper.
Brow furrowing, Ransom took it and unfolded it to read the address scrawled in green pen: a cemetary. “Is it…?” he began, but his throat closed, choking off the rest of his question. In response, Emilie nodded, a sad smile forming on her lips. “I thought you might enjoy the drive.” She gestured to his bike, “but I can go with you if you don’t want to be alone.”
“Is it safe?”
“Mentally and physically, you are more than capable of driving. Is that what you wanted to know?”
He shrugged; the answer sufficed, plus it would be good to be alone, unsupervised from the doctors and nurses and suited security officers that patrolled the compound. As if sensing his thoughts, Emilie added, “Don’t worry about the guards at the gate. They’ll let you through.”
Stepping forward, Ransom wrapped his arms tightly around his aunt, the address crumpled in his fist, and whispered his thanks.
“She’s buried near a giant oak tree on the northeast side,” said Emilie as she handed Ransom his helmet. “You can’t miss it.”
He slipped the helmet onto his head. It cradled his temples and neck, and he found in the conforming pressure a comfort that he never found in seatbelts. “See you later, Em.” Swinging a leg over the seat, he buckled his helmet and started the motor, the bike quaking like a thoroughbred in the gate before the Derby, and his heart began to race, part with the thrill of freedom, part with fear of being on the road for the first time since the accident. He revved the bike in farewell and shot Emilie what he hoped was a confident grin, but inside, nothing filled save the mingling of anticipation and fright. 
            When he arrived at the cemetery over an hour later, Ransom meandered between the rows of headstones until he spotted the oak, and he stopped short, his legs refusing to approach Jenna’s grave. Seeing it meant acknowledging that she was dead.
“I’m not ready,” he whispered under his breath. The tremors returned to his hands.
Standing alone, he breathed in and out for several heartbeats, and then willed himself to go on. Ransom stared at Jenna’s headstone and her name carved into the stone. Seeing it denied any doubts he harbored. She was dead.
            What he said to her grave, he couldn’t remember when he returned to his bike, but his cheeks glistened with tears and his eyes were red and dry, unable to weep anymore.
            In sober silence, he drove the long road back to Airmid.
Dusk fell as he arrived at the compound and drove through the double gates as they swung open to admit him. Ransom parked and hunted down Miles, no doubt in one of the many programming rooms located around Airmid’s facility. Sluggishly, he walked down one hallway after another. As he passed the corridor leading to the wings of examining rooms, a man in an expensive suit with close-cropped hair strode past, and as Ransom made brief eye-contact with the security man, he paused, blinked, a hazy circle of recognition prodding him. He knew the man from somewhere...somewhere before the accident...he was almost certain of it. But when he turned to examine the man again, he had gone. Probably saw him around here, supposed Ransom, but his memory placed the man elsewhere...he shook the prickling sensation away.
As Ransom rounded a corner of one of the long corridors, he barely avoided bumping into a well-dressed man whose suit was perfectly tailored to his tall, lean frame. A aura of power radiated from him, and on impulse, Ransom stood straighter.
            “Ah,” said the man, surprised, turquoise eyes scanning Ransom from head to toe, reminding Ransom of the scrutiny of a commanding officer. Short, sandy blond hair fell neatly to one side of his narrow temples, and sharp cheekbones jutted out beneath his striking eyes. Yet though his features were harsh, crows feet at the corners of his eyes softened his appearance. “Mr. Osborne.”
            Judging by his accent, the dropped r’s and round, elongated vowels, Ransom placed the man as a native Londoner. Southern British, at least. One of the Grimes brothers, he supposed.
            Confirming Ransom’s suspicions, the man extended his right hand and introduced himself. “Darien Grimes. I was on my way to find you, actually. What providence that we should run into one another here.”
            Ransom shook Darien’s hand, noting the raised calluses on his fingers and palms, which he found odd for a businessman. From personal experience, Ransom knew the pattern as belonging to rigorous combat training. Thick skin on the back of Darien’s knuckles also confirmed at least some sort of background in martial arts.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes,” Darien spoke quickly. “You see, I read in your file about your military history as well as your language skills—your mother was Russian and taught you the language, correct?—and contacts overseas, and I may be in need of a man such as yourself. I’m putting together a new program and wish to invite you to be part of it. You are a perfect candidate and, I believe, would be well-suited to it. You wanted to help people, yes?—that’s why you joined the army so young.”
Nodding in response to the first question, Ransom opened his mouth to inquire the type of program, but Darien either took no notice or cared little about Ransom’s query and continued, “The project concerns special operations on a global level. You see, there are things governments, due to their, shall we say, less-than-covert natures, cannot achieve. By instituting and perfecting this program, I hope to save lives, prevent...meaningless deaths.” His gaze met Ransom’s. “It might help you take your mind off your grief and give you something to fight for. You miss combat, don’t you.”
“Yes.” It was the first time Ransom acknowledged the yearning he sometimes felt for the battlefield, for the rush of adrenaline, for the sensation of peering through his scope, fixing an enemy in the crosshairs, and firing. Taking a life to save many or to save one, it didn’t matter to him so long as a good man or woman returned home at the end of the day. While dating Jenna, he persuaded himself against missing it, but she was dead.
            “Deep down, I think we all do.” He sighed and tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. “That’s why Miles, Malcolm, and I decided to take the research from Airmid and expand upon it, test its possibilities and potential.” Darien read Ransom’s surprise. “Ah,” he grit his teeth. “He didn’t tell you, I see. This isn’t a project for the faint of heart, Mr. Osborne.”
            “Call me Ransom.”
            Darien inclined his head and smiled, displaying two rows of bleached-white teeth. “Very well. This project will test you mentally, physically, and emotionally. It will require you to make decisions that may cost someone their life in order to save others. You may spend years undercover and overseas. You may even die. In truth, I cannot even guarantee that you will survive the initial conditioning the program requires,” Darien’s gaze remained steady and unwavering, his voice low and tone smooth. “Are you still interested?”
            Unbidden, images of Jenna flashed through Ransom’s mind—their meeting, and their first date at a coffeehouse, the subsequent dates at various spots, their walks through the park, the way her mouth twitched in amusement or quirked to the side when deep in thought, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair and how it never fell exactly how she wanted it. The brilliant expression on her face when he proposed. The ring on her finger, the weight of her hand resting on his thigh as they drove to tell her parents. The love in her large eyes as she looked at him and smiled softly mere seconds before the truck struck them and sent the car careening down the embankment.
             Helplessness clenched his heart and lungs in a vice grip, preventing him from breathing, from standing straight. His vision blurred; his ears filled with the ringing from after the accident and the steady tempo of the heart monitor, to which the words you couldn’t save her, couldn’t save her sang in an endless taunt. Ghost memories, he told himself, but his body and senses reacted nonetheless. Fingernails dug into his palms, and the pain grounded him to the present.
            “Mr. Osborne—Ransom—are you well? Should I summon one of the nurses?”
            Swallowing hard, Ransom straightened and steadied himself against the wall. “I’m fine.”
            Sympathy softened Darien’s sharp features, and his posture slackened. “Memories? Forgive my momentary lapse in manners. May I offer my condolences for your loss; I cannot imagine how heartbroken you must be.”
            “Thank you,” Ransom muttered.
            “My project will help with that, too.”
            “With what?”
            Darien’s gaze flicked to Ransom’s still-shaking hands. “That. Your physiological responses to emotions. I saw your brain scan,” he confessed. “In fact, I lead the team working on repairing your brain. But I digress.” Darien chuckled. “Your amygdala and temporal lobes suffered the most damage; they regulate your emotion responses and memory, you understand. You’ve experienced strong flashbacks and emotional responses before, haven’t you.”
            It wasn’t a question. Since waking from his coma, Ransom had experienced mood swings and uncontrollable flashbacks that he attributed to PTSD, but he couldn't fight them, couldn’t reason with them like he did before and stop them from overwhelming him.
            Darien read his response in the silence. “My program requires a sort of dream hypnosis in order to maximize muscle memory. I’ll explain it all later if you wish, but that is the short version of it. You will be under for a couple hours or so every day. We can put you in one of our hyperbaric oxygen therapy chambers and monitor your brain function. If done correctly, we can repair more of the damage. We can, of course, do that without your being a part of the program,” he chuckled again, but there was a distinct lack of mirth that set Ransom on edge. “Consider it for as long as you need, Ransom. Please, talk it over with Miles—he can give you more information—, and come back to me when you’ve made a decision.”
            “I will,” he replied, but already knew his answer. Discussing it with Miles and Emilie merely provided him with a sounding board, an opportunity to hear him declare his choice before he told Darien.
The following morning, after a mostly sleepless night, Ransom knocked on Darien’s office door, and stepped back when it swung inward. When Darien, who sat at his desk staring into a computer screen that shed bluish light onto his chiseled features, looked up and saw who stood in the threshold of his office, a broad smile parted his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He gestured for Ransom to enter. “Good morning!” he said chipperly. Ransom spotted two empty coffee cups in the wire wastebasket. “I trust you spoke with your uncle?”
“I did, and I have an answer for you.” Ransom straightened and addressed Darien with as much of a soldier’s posture as he could  muster. “I’m in.”
*          *          *          *          *          *          *
            Years later, Ransom lay behind the rampart of a rooftop, a rifle propped against his shoulder and scope targeted on a well-dressed businessman who stepped out of his favorite coffeehouse onto the sidewalk, his unbreakable routine. Ransom adjusted the scope, tracking the man in his crosshairs, his rifle barrel steady and unwavering.
Project PHOBETOR had worked, eradicating most of Ransom’s emotional responses, including the tremors in his hands that began after the accident. Later, he would break, but now, he was utterly and completely calm.
Sandy blond hair ruffled in the breeze that whipped through the wind tunnel created by the skyscrapers; the man’s coat flapped. Ransom leveled his rifle, took aim, and blessed the bullet that would end Darien Grimes.
And then a brunette girl stumbled directly into Darien, obstructing Ransom’s shot and spilling Darien’s coffee all over his expensive coat. Ransom cursed and watched as the girl apologetically brushed off Darien’s coat. Too apologetically, thought Ransom. Sure enough, he peered through his scope and watched the girl lift and pocket something black and square-shaped: Darien’s wallet.
Ransom grinned slyly, marking the girl. He would find her later, hopefully before Darien’s men did.
Opportunity lost, he watched Darien climb into the waiting car and disappear before packing up his rifle, slinging it onto his back, and fairly leaping down the fire escape. Behind a dumpster in the back alley waited his bike. Hopping aboard it, he masked himself with his helmet, wheeled the bike about, and headed home.





----------
As always, feel free to leave any questions or comments below, and I'll read and respond to them as soon as I can! Thanks for reading!

~Abigail Blair

No comments:

Post a Comment