Tempest of Emotions
Chapter 19: Not the Same
By Azure Orbis
A/N– Sorry, it's been a while, over three months, but still writing and still updating. The internet broke and a certain phone company still hasn't out that tech support yet! So I am uploading this via the public library– I love them for the computers now. My apologies on the extreme tardiness and please enjoy the chapter. It was hard to write and by the end, I hope you'll see why. Oh and this chapter is a bit long, so strap yourself in for a lengthy one. And the italics mean a flashback.
A knock at the door alerted her; he arrived. She opened it, a tight smile of relief on her face, "I'm glad you're here. She's in her bedroom." She opened the door more, standing back to let him in. He quickly strode past Cindy to her bedroom, seeing the mess she had created in her delirium. He stood, shocked, at the doorway, unsure what how to proceed.
"Kinda takes your breath away doesn't it?" Cindy asked humorlessly. Zack nodded, not bothering to think of a reply. Taking a deep breath, he entered her room. Walking slowly with his arms up, he neared her slowly. Her eyes were already watching him fearfully. He moved even slower toward her. When an animal felt cornered, that was when it would most likely lash out without any regard for its own safety; that was when it was most dangerous.
He started talking in his most soothing voice, knowing that she probably couldn't understand him anymore, but that his voice might serve to calm her. As it was, her eyes already exuded anger at this stranger intruding on her territory. Her body was crouched in a defensive position, ready to spring up and strike him at the slightest threatening movement. He sat down, a good ten feet away from her, his back slightly turned away from her, his eyes looking at the window to avoid eye contact.
"You know, Max, the weather here is really crappy. It's always raining and it always makes me wet, because you know, I don't carry umbrellas with me; too bulky." He explained. He glanced at her, she was still in the same position, ready to attack him, so he continued with his talk. "Anyways, I'll never understand why you insist on staying here, but then again you were always the sentimental one in the group, with exception to Jondy and Ben. You three were inseparable so I had a hard time dealing with you all. Now I guess, I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but who knows what's good for us anymore right? Maybe, having some kind of sentiments will serve as an anchoring agent, to keep us mentally stable or something." He mused, wondering how he got to that point. He looked back at Max, who seemed to have lowered her alert level to heightened curiosity. Gradually, he slid near the foot of her bed, hunkering down in a ball to make himself look as harmless as possible. She feigned indifference, but he knew she was listening to him intently, so he continued talking softly, reminiscing about their past days.
After a long time, he slipped out of her room silently, sliding the curtains behind him. Max was asleep, lulled to rest by his quiet voice, and Cindy was waiting. "You know what caused this?" He asked her quietly, hoping not to disturb the sleeping person. They walked further away to continue talking, before settling down on two old chairs.
Cindy remained silent, remembering the day she came home to see Max crying on the floor. It was unnerving; to see someone she admired so much, someone who seemed unbreakable to be sobbing on the living room floor. She hugged Max, trying to help her in anyway.
"You know, there's a reason I didn't let people near me. The fact is that they're weak and they die and that just leaves me here wondering if it was worth it. I mean, why bother caring about anyone if all they'll do is die?" Max started choking up, her face strained with emotion. Cindy rushed over to hug her.
"Shhh, honey, it's okay." Cindy cooed, in her best maternal voice, mimicking her own mother, a memory long faded with time.
"I can't help but wonder if they didn't know me, they would all be alive! They died because of me! I am poison. That scumbag was right, I am poison." The tears flowed freely now. Outside the rain grew heavier and the thunder boomed loudly in the distance. The lightning's jagged edges lit up the pale grey sky to a brilliant white, illuminating the city for a brief second. The pouring rain blanketed the city relentlessly, covering it with a sheen of murky waters.
"You don't really believe that, do you boo?" Cindy asked, shocked at the confession. The sky returned to its grey color as the brief burst of light subsided and gave way to darkness once more.
"You almost died because of me too, Cindy. Don't you remember?" A pair of red-rimmed eyes gazed up at her, Original Cindy frowned.
After a long, hard silence Cindy replied, "Yes, I do," evidently still recalling the first time she felt that her life was in extreme danger and all the revelations that came with that danger. She let go of Max, her face was unreadable as she remembered the horror when she discovered that her landlord was dead and that people who killed him were also after her. It was a terrifying thought as helplessness descended on her. She could hold her own against disgruntled members of the opposite sex, but she was not so sure she'd fare well against hyped-up homo-sapiens with plenty of guns and no fear.
"Guess what Max, you're the one who saved me too, so we're even."
"But I couldn't save them!" Max cried, her tears overflowed again. Cindy rushed to embrace her again, acting like a protective cocoon against the elements for the wind-torn girl.
"I didn't mean it like that!" Cindy tried to comfort her friend, but Max only hugged her tighter and cried harder. Cindy held on to her tightly, unable to do anything else. Together they sat on the cool floor, one crying, the other struggling not to.
"She cried?" Zack asked after listening to Cindy's recollection of the past month.
"Yeah, mostly when I wasn't at home. I should have stayed home more, but Normal threatened to fire me and I couldn't say that Max was back. It's all my--"
"No, it isn't. It's not your fault." Zack interrupted, "I should have stayed with her more, but I didn't think it would have such an adverse impact on her." He looked back toward her bedroom. "She cried huh? She was always the most soft hearted." He paused, thinking to himself, "Actually, I don't think I've ever seen an X-5 cry before."
"Never?" Cindy asked. X-5's did not cry?
"Never."
"So, what should I do? About her?" Cindy asked after Zack maintained the silence, hunched over in thought.
He straightened up, "I'm not sure, but continue watching her and try to keep her calm. Hopefully she'll come out of it on her own."
"Hopefully? You mean you have no idea what to do." Cindy's voice rose in anger and panic.
Zack glared at her, silencing her for the moment. "She'll pull out. She's too strong for this."
"And if she doesn't?" Cindy quipped.
"Then maybe that Logan guy can help." He conceded, getting up. "Give me 72 hours first; I'll try to come back as soon as possible." He headed toward the door.
"What? You're telling me to go to Logan as a last resort? Why shouldn't I tell him now?"
Zack whipped around, anger etched on his face, "Yeah and have him rush over to see Max with her attacking him as a result? How are you going to handle a dying man and an unstable X-5 at the same time? Listen to me, just watch her for a while. If I haven't returned in three days or I haven't brought any help, go to him; only then and not before." Zack commanded her sternly, heading for the door once more.
"If she gets real bad, I'm going to Logan's immediately." Cindy stated stubbornly; no one would make her jeopardize her friend's safety, even if it was Max's brother.
"Fine, do what you want, but take care of her." He replied dismissively.
"I will." She promised as he left, shutting the door behind him. Inside her bedroom, Max groaned in her sleep. Cindy drifted over, like a floating ghost to her friend's bed, helping straighten out the tangled blankets and smooth out her friends pillow.
Her eyes rested on her friend and she settled down to watch over her. Max had already been in this phase for almost a day. If she didn't get better soon, she would tell Logan. It didn't bother her that Zack specifically told her not to. In this case, Max came first.
A man walked. He walked quickly, but without aim or purpose. He walked because he saw a road once, picked a direction and followed it. That was when the sun had risen nine times already. On this, the tenth day, he kept on walking, resting when he tired and sleeping when he dropped in exhaustion. The scenery changed over time. At first it was very dry, with little water and only sparse low vegetation. Then, there were trees scattered across the yellow grasslands. He did not like those places. They were hot in the day and cold at night. More importantly, there were no places to hide. Here, there were many trees, tall and big ones. He looked at them with appreciation; they made good hiding spots.
The sound of an automobile passing by makes him nervous. He stays away from the roads because they are dangerous to him. Hiding under the cover of the woods, he only feels partially safe. He knows that they are coming after him and that they will come by cars, helicopters, anything mechanical. He does not like cars. Cars will bring him back to the place where he woke up first and he does not want to go back there, ever. The memories of that place come to him when he sleeps sometimes, but he manages to forget them when he wakes.
It's not that bad sleeping outside under the stars, he mused. As long as there is no rain, sleeping outside could even be considered a pleasure. Except for the fact of his noisy neighbors who especially like to forage during nocturnal hours or the constant bug annoyance. Still, it is nighttime and even then the bug menace has died down too.
He spoke too soon as that familiar annoying buzz grew loud. He can't understand why this bug thinks it has a chance to bite him and draw out his blood without him noticing, even if it is at night. With his excellent night vision and quick reflexes, the bug is quickly killed. He smiles, satisfied and peers into the dark.
A sound of a passing vehicle on the distant road reminds him that he must keep moving, even if he has no idea where exactly he is heading. That can wait until morning, he decides before shifting to his side for a more comfortable sleeping position. Even if he does not need a lot of sleep, he knows he can use all the rest he can get, so he closes his eyes and tries to force himself unconscious. After a few moments it doesn't seem to work and his mind wanders instead. The smell of the mud is not exactly unpleasant, but he wishes he could sleep in one of those wooden contraptions he comes across instead of outside. The risk of being caught would be exponentially higher if he would risk one night of sleeping comfort for being caught yet again. He decides against it with regret.
Sometimes, while he sleeps, he dreams. And in those dreams, his phantoms come to haunt him like every night he spent there. There are times where the images are so blurry that they resemble more like blobs of paint flung carelessly on a canvas and other times, they are clear enough for him to make out unclear shapes. He tries to focus to see what the dreams show him; maybe then he will be able to understand the warped sounds that occasionally accompany the images. It is all in vain, like trying to see while squinting or trying to hear some important message while being half submerged. It frustrates him to no end that he cannot make sense of these images and of the sounds. They seem to be important enough that part of his mind has devoted itself to storing them and another part that keeps on replaying them in his own private theater showing. The dreams give him a sense of urgency, of something he must solve or understand in order to remember his past or perhaps he has to remember his past before he can solve the dreams. At times, he is at the point of insanity, driven half mad by the senselessness of the dreams. He wishes he could forget them completely and just continue on his odd sojourn. But, the road is lonely and the only thing he has in abundance is time. And so, he ponders on the dreams while he walks as a way to make the day go by.
There is movement in the dreams, as if he is going somewhere. And there are voices. Blurry images mixed with warped sounds, he thinks about them until they are one of the few things he can recall flawlessly from his scrambled mind. Are they images of the past or just manifestations of a troubled mind? Over time, the dreams become more like a riddle that he wants to solve, something to waste time on. The urgency is still there, but his mind is set more on getting to wherever he needs to go to. There is no clear direction or a point where he knows this is the place he has been striving for, but there is something driving him to a certain place and he knows that once he is there, he will know it. It sounds ludicrous and his mind does not fail to remind him. He will know where he needs to be when he is there? He laughs at the little debates that are waged within. It occurs to him that he can easily give up this strange sojourn and take a different path to somewhere else, but he does not want to. Call it the stubborn streak within him, which he does not even know about. With a mind that does not remember and a self-imposed journey to someplace that he cannot even fathom about, this is the best that he can do: To see the journey to the end and if by then his memory has not returned, he can always go wandering off into the great unknown. That settles the internal wars and he hopes that whatever is leading him to that place, will know it when he reaches there. If not, then this journey will be a complete waste.
He walks near the road sometimes; it gives him much-needed direction and a winding path to follow among the thick forestry. He shifts the knapsack on his shoulders. Everything he has is either on himself or in there. A thin blanket, some food he stole from the last town and a second set of clothes. The man who gave the knapsack to him, he had such warm blue eyes, he remembered him well. This man distracted the guards while stuffing the bag into his arms and telling him to run. "Jonathan", his name tag said. This Jonathan was the person who brought him food after his sessions in that hateful room. He remembered being tied to a chair there. Some days he would sit there for hours at a time, until he could not remember when he came in. Was it yesterday, this morning or many days ago? Time seemed to not matter, and it did not. What would he do with that extra time anyway? Other times he was interrogated, always by speakers he could not see. Their voices were always demanding that he tell the truth about something he could not remember.
Mostly he was strapped to some machine that would do something to his mind; they injected him with some liquid before starting. It induced pain, an electric-kind of shock coursing through his body. His whole body convulsed and strained against his bonds with the treatment. A voice told him that they were treating him for his illness and that this was the only way to drive it out. He did not believe them and so he fought. They always won. He never remembered how he got back to his room. Usually he was exhausted to the point of extreme sleep deprivation and other times, he blacked out completely. He would wake up on his cot and Jon was there with food, waiting for him. Jon would quietly tell him how long he had been asleep and when he would have another session before leaving him with the tray of food. Sometimes he would stay to talk with him, sharing bits of useless information while he hungrily crammed down the tasteless substances. To him, Jon was the kindest person. He would always remember him as his savior.
It happened one day, the same as the last and the day before that day. There was nothing different about this day, Jon woke him up, like before and told him to get ready. He thought it was for another session, but instead he noticed Jon looking about nervously, fiddling with a package in his arms. He wanted to inquire why and what the package, but kept quiet because Jon would tell him later as usual. What happened afterward would turn his schedule upside down. There was a loud klaxon, blaring painfully into his head with the same two monotonous notes. People scattered around the facility, frantic looks on their faces. They were so busy rushing to whatever claimed their attention that they did not notice him and that he was out of his cell without any attendants restraining him. He stood calmly, amongst the fray before it dawned on him: he was free.
Jon told him to run, leading him to an exit before shoving the packet into his arms. Before he had a chance to ask what was going on, Jon babbled on about something about avoiding roads and cars and that he should run as fast as he could, as far as he could. And so he did. He ran for hours without stopping, without even opening the packet in his haste to distance himself from that horrible facility. He did not look back, not even once, although he thought of Jon a lot, especially when he was tired and his hungry stomach reminded him of the timely meals he received back there. There is something different about being outside that place, something that makes him glad, even though he is unsure how. Now, in places unknown, with no memories of the past, only of a time he would rather forget, so he keeps on walking, following the path he picked those few days ago.
It is a strange existence, to wander without knowing who you are. It frightened him in the beginning, but he stopped wondering about it, assuring himself that he would fill in the blanks someday or that his mind would sudden awaken the parts that were asleep now. Jon told him about the world outside and instead of wondering who he is again, he thought of his caretaker and the stories he told him as he continued his daily trek to nowhere.
A faraway noise caught his attention. It was distinctly familiar and even pleasantly so in that respect. Normally he would have fled at the slightest sound of an automobile, but this was somehow different. He remained rooted where he stood, waiting patiently as that sound grew louder and louder. The instincts he had from the past weeks told him to run, to get as far away as he could, but he stood, transfixed in the path of the oncoming vehicle. Despite all the warnings his mind threw at him, he waited, waited to connect a picture with that familiar sound. His heart thuds loudly in his chest, as if it knows that this is the sign it has been innately waiting for.
There, at the furthest point of the road, there was something moving there and the sight of it entranced him. An automobile that was on two wheels, sleeker and faster than any car he had ever seen. On board was a person, crouched over until both person and automobile blended into one fast-moving object that was simply mesmerizing. Then there were more. Not just one or two of the same automobile, ridden by a single occupant, but many more. He started to panic, perhaps his pursers decided to track him on these more agile machines? Perhaps they long realized that he was much faster than those sluggish transports they first employed after him. These automobiles were much faster and were theoretically capable of catching up to him.
He wanted to turn about face and run, run ahead, run into the woods, anything that would distance him from those approaching things. But his feet remained rooted as if part of his brain demanded that he stay and witness these fantastical riders as they neared him.
He is torn, wanting to run, wanting to stay. He breaks out into a cold sweat as his heart thunders in his chest. Should he stay or should he flee?
The riders advanced until they were almost upon him and yet they did not seem to even take notice of him. They are almost on top of him and he has not even moved a muscle, for fear that it would start a chain reaction that would send him fleeing into the welcoming green leaves. And in an instance, they rushed past him, not even slowing down to capture him and take him back to that place. The strange familiar hum of engines roar past the lone figure in the road. He stands there stunned; the agile riders did not even seem to notice him, much less dismount, attempt to capture him and bring him back to that forsaken lab.
And there she was, an image stuck in his mind. The leader of the group had turned her head to look at him as she rode past and he caught her dark eyes, unfathomable and alluring. And it was definitely a she, he knew that for certain without knowing how he knew it. Even through her jet-black helmet, her figure and her eyes were startlingly clear in his eye's mind. The same sense of a haunting déjà vu shot through him, the same familiar feeling when he first saw those riders and their beautiful forms skimming over the forest road. It was the same feeling that his heart and his mind hungered for, the sense of something familiar, of a past he could not remember, that was sweet although fleeting. Too bad she is gone before he can connect why the image of her is so familiar.
The screeching sounds of many breaks fill the air as a single motorcycle turned around and headed toward him. It was her, the leader.
"Hey handsome," she greeted after taking off her helmet, her bike idled while she ran her hand through her short mane of red hair, making it look more like a flame of fire. It struck the man as strangely odd that he was disappointed at her appearance and that his heart had slowed down considerably.
"Hello," he replied politely. He was still on high alert, but he sensed that there was no need to fear these riders except to deal with them with caution. There was considerable silence as he regarded the rider curiously, silently gauging her and the possible danger she and the group of motorists presented.
"You needing a ride?" She asked after noticing him staring at her bike. Usually the guys would stare at her, not her bike. Perhaps this one was an automobile aficionado or something.
"Yeah, nearest town okay?" He replied smoothly, having used the same lie before.
"Sure, hop on on stranger." She gestured to the space behind her.
He hesitated briefly, "I don't suppose you'd let me drive this." The women on the other bikes laughed at his audacity.
"Sorry, maybe next time." She laughed, "I'm Katherine, Kate for short."
"Good to meet you Katherine." He settled in comfortably behind her. Kate let go of the break and the engine chugged to life as she drove on. It was a comforting sound, the hum of the many engines as they mixed together into a single song. His mind started to drift with the sound and the green trees rushing by, thoughts of town and a chance to restock his supplies filling his head.
It looked like another tough night for the waitresses at the small tavern, the Black Dragon and it was only midday. Usually the small bar was populated by its usual clients, a population that numbered up to an astounding twelve people. However, today there was an unusual crowd of rowdy bikers filling up the establishment and to make things worse, they liked to drink and make loud merriment.
Her shift had started a mere hour ago, but to her, it seemed like a lifetime and she was ready for her 15 minute break. From dawn to dusk, the call for booze did not ebb and the customers just kept coming and coming. For the bar owner (also the bartender), this was a dream come true, a little extra cash to help tide over on the days when the bar would be much emptier. For the waitresses, this was hell. Most times, the Black Dragon was a pleasant place to work. Sure the pay was miserable and there was much left to be desired of the atmosphere, but the work was decent and usually not very stressful. The usual customers were relatively respectful and the pay was always on time, even if it sometimes consisted mostly of bottles than dollar bills. That was most of the time. The other minority of space and time, the bar was a hot spot, in fact, the only hot spot in the small town. Strategically placed next to the only motel in town, the Black Dragon attracted all of the motel customers and both the owner of the Black Dragon and the motel, Paradise Inn, would make a nice bundle of cash. And for that short amount of time, work was hectic and the treatment of the hospitality workers went from tolerable to bad.
It is a dead end job and she knew it. But she needed the money and there was no where else to go, so she stayed and every other month she swore she would quit. But she never did because she needed the money. Sure she was still young and this kind of life was a sorry excuse, but the rest of the world is in terrible shape and unless she happens upon one of the very few wealthy people of the world, her existence could be even worse than it is right now. So, instead of taking a gamble and striking out into the unknown, she sticks to the safe path, one where she will live out the ends of her days in a futureless job with the same pittance of pay. Still it is better than taking that chance and ending up starving in a place where no one even knows your name, she reasons. Day in and day out, it is the same. There is no variation, except in the workload and today, she rues the fact that there is no difference; she might as well be reliving the same day.
In the midst of bussing dirty tables, she hears the distinct roar of another motorcycle gang. 'Goodness, will this day ever end?' She wonders, rolling before hefting up the heavy tray of chipped plates and empty bottles towards the kitchen. There are few items on the scanty menu that are considered edible, but it was added to help augment the small cash flow of the bar. She returns just in time to see a young god walk into the bar. There is an audible stilling of the road as the young man selects a seat and sits on it. And she is shocked at the young Adonis who has walked into this bar as if it is a common thing. She blinks and the glowing air around him disappears, the noise starts to fill up the place again, but although he looks more human now and not a true descendant of Olympus, she is still shocked.
There is more to this handsome young man than his undeniably good looks. There seems to be an air of gravity surrounding him, making him look somber and serious. 'He looks troubled,' she decides and walks over with the best smile she can muster. He looks at her with confused eyes and her heart feels for him immediately. With those innocent, sad puppy eyes of his, how could she not?
"Hi, my name's Sydney." She greets him.
There was pause in the air until he finally realized she was waiting for something. Waiting for what? Waiting for him to introduce himself. His name…What was his name…Was it unusual to not remember one's name? It never occurred to him that he did not have a name or that he could not remember it. He was "the one who escaped" or just simply "I", there was not name. Even Jon did not address him by a name, just a "Good morning" and "How are you doing?"
"My name's Jonathan, you can call me Jon." He quickly covered up his confusion with a disarming smile. The uncertainty of his eyes vanished; Sydney wondered if she had only imagined it.
"So, where you heading Jon?"
"Huh? How did you know?" He asked quickly, suspicion tainting his mind.
"Well, people don't come to Tanford for Tanford. This is more of a pit stop for motorists than an actually town." She explained. "So, where are you heading?" She asked again, this time a little less demanding since she saw how quickly he got uncomfortable even with her simple question.
"Well Cindy--"
"Sydney," she quickly corrected.
"Sorry Sydney. Actually, I'm not sure. I'm headed for the West Coast for some traveling. It feels like something is calling me there, so I just packed up one day and started on this little journey. And here I am, months later."
"Well, that certainly sound exciting. What will you be having?"
"Uh…beer?" He asks, borrowing the word from one of the more vocal customers nearby.
"Okay," she laughs softly at his inexperience with liquor and how sweet his request is. "I'll bring you some food too because you look like you need it."
"But I don't have--" he starts to protest.
Sydney smiles again, the most she has in a long time. "It's okay, I can treat a customer from time to time." He nods in appreciation and she whisks off to the kitchen, her feet and her heart feeling lighter than ever.
"Well, Helene, what have you to report?"
"The samples have all been destroyed, along with the bodies that were stored in the morgue. The tissue samples retrieved by the teams are all useless, having been killed or morphed by the intense heat."
"None of the retrieved samples contain viable data?"
"No, they have been contaminated or corroded in the chaos."
"The fire did all that?"
"The chemicals that were in the morgue and the fire that started there...they destroyed the samples."
"Do you have any good news at all?"
"I have saved a partial on our data banks. It will be years before it is even close to where it was, but it's a start. I also managed to secure a few samples while I was escaping. I'm not sure which specimen they belong to, but we might get lucky and find it belongs to her. And..."
"Yes? What else?" She demanded impatiently.
"I also received a sample from Ames White." Helene paused, unsure of how to continue, "He claims it belongs to X5-494." Her superior exhaled sharply; that news was most unexpected.
"X5-494? I was under the impression that Ames shot and killed him." Helene's superior replied slowly, the consequences of this little betrayal sinking into her mind. So, White had finally managed to bypass her in authority; that sneaky, power-grubbing scoundrel.
"So was I. Evidently it was all a ruse. He went over my head and planned this trap."
"Not to mention, he went over mine as well. I was under the impression that I controlled all matters dealing with these genetic abominations."
"He must have contacted the Conclave on his own."
"White has always been a model citizen, why would he do this now? Perhaps he is more like his father than we realized. Sandeman did whatever was required without complaint and he did them perfectly, until he defected and then disappeared for years, resurfacing as the head of that government-funded atrocity, Manitcore."
"He was my father too" Bromley whispered quietly, a trace of emotion in her usually wooden voice.
"I did not think you wanted to be associated with him or his name." Her superior added, more softly than she would usually would. Evidently, it was a sore topic for both women.
"I may be his illegitimate daughter, but he still is my father."
"My apologies. Now to the matter at hand, how shall we deal with White?" Her voice had turned hard again, back to the business of dealing with trangenics and now, White. No son of any dissenter, not even one hailed as a genius of the whole family, would ever rise over her head, not after what she did to gain that power. White had another thing coming if he thought all it took was some DNA samples and a transgenic to claim her seat of power.
A/N- There's probably a million mistakes in this, but I wanted to get this out before next week. And yes, "Tanford" is just a figment of my imagination. I don't think a place with that name even exists. And yes, he is alive! Alec is alive! I couldn't kill him off…Anyways, same request as last time, please drop a comment!