First, small warning: Adam is a bit of a potty mouth in this.
IMO this chapter is waaaaay better than the two last ones. I'm definitely going back to those in the future, but let's just say I'm way prouder of this chapter.
"You are taking this much better than I anticipated. Considering you're an only child", Father muses as he sits down on my bed.
"Or, were", he corrects himself.
I do not attempt to entertain the conversation. I try not to think too much of the fact that I've been sent to bed at the same hour as James. And that Kent got to remain in the sitting room. Terrified, yes, but he still had time to postpone being unwillingly tucked into bed.
"Why are you doing this? Really", I ask him.
He breathes a light sigh.
"Why is it that you boys always have to focus on the whats and the hows and the whys?", he asks me. He waits for me to explain, but I merely stare back at him.
He chuckles and his face is too cheerful.
"Can't you be grateful for once in your miserable little life?", he asks me, smile still on his lips.
"For what exactly?"
"For giving you two adorable little brothers. For not forcing you into a bunk bed. For convincing the council not to execute all three of you despite conspiring to kill me..."
His tone sharpens into something I'm more familiar with. And even if I should be scared I'm actually relieved that he has finally addressed the elephant in the room.
Still, I can't enjoy it to the fullest, because he is wrong.
"James did no such thing", I say.
James, who was the only one in a cheerful mood during dinner time; eating corn and other vegetables he hadn't had the memory of experiencing before.
Father doesn't look surprised, yet he tilts his head.
"And Adam?"
Kent, who, by the look of him, wanted nothing more than to run and hide in his room again during dinner; but only stayed because James was strapped into a high-chair on the other side of the table.
"He only joined us for the food", I say.
He considers my words, then shrugs.
"Doesn't make that much of a difference. You're all here now. That's what matters."
He sighs and then moves his arm to rest his weight towards me. I know what's coming. And he knows I know.
And we both know there is nothing I can do about it.
I lean backward, part of me still hoping he'd get the hint and realize how bizarre this is, but instead, he brings up his hand to my cheek, guides it back towards him.
"Good night", he says. Then he kisses me.
He waits for a moment. I know he's gazing at me, despite having my eyes locked on the comforter.
"You know you'll always be Daddy's first baby, right?", he asks. That tone again. High pitch without articulating properly. Patronizing. Pretending to be adoring. Yet, there is another feeling mixed in now, making my eyes dart up.
Possessiveness.
There's never been any denial that my father has had me swaddled my entire life. He's been a constant; scrutinizing; presence. Which would sound like a comforting trait in a father figure, but has been nothing but suffocating.
Even as a Colonel of my own sector I was never completely left to my own devices. Even if we were on different sides of the globe I was never too far away to be scolded or questioned. There is a reason my office and gym were the only places where I could feel completely at peace.
This though. This desire to smother and control. To change. To rebuild. To shape into what he wants. Before it was always in the background. A goal in the long run. Rome was not built in a day. It takes time. My father relished in breaking me. He'd crush me before feeding me small pieces of hope then coming back with a sledgehammer. Over and over again.
This time around though: He won't accept another failure.
"I'd certainly hope so. Unless there's more of us…", I manage.
"Yes, that would have been quite interesting", he chuckles before kissing me again and finally lets me go.
As I lay there in the dark I consider waiting. To make my way into Kent's room once my father retreats to his own bedroom, but realize that the corridor between us, or even each of our doors, will be patrolled by a guard to prevent that kind of mid-night conference.
So, I go to sleep and I awake, once again, without an alarm clock to tell me what time it is. I stick my head out into the hallway. To my surprise, I turn my head to see Kent also fresh out of bed further down the hall. And fresh into this shared nightmare of ours.
He quickly walks up to me as soon as he spots me. He's not wearing anything but a pair of briefs.
"I think we need to talk...", Kent whispers.
"That is quite the understatement, Kent", I tell him.
"But not now", I add as a guard walks past the junction of the corridors.
Kent nods. He reminds me of Delalieu in a way, despite the two of them not being related by blood. Desperate for instructions on what to do. And for the first time in days I feel the semblance of my Commander-self.
"Go dress", I tell him.
"I don't have any clothes…"
"Try checking the closet", I deadpan. Because I severely doubt Father would leave him without clothes.
The only hint that he is embarrassed is the light blush that colors his cheeks. He turns on his heel and retreats back into his room. Kent returns within a minute. He has picked out a simple t-shirt and khaki pants.
I wave over my shoulder and he follows me down the hall. As we near the kitchen I can distinguish sounds of activity from within. The fan is running. And someone is… chanting?
Kent must be as confused as I am because we simultaneously glance at each other before entering.
It's our father, Supreme Commander Paris Anderson of North America, capering around the kitchen clad in an apron and with a spatula raised in the air. He seems to be the source of the singing. Or chanting, I'm not entirely sure. He seems to be enjoying himself.
"Who likes waffles? Jamie likes waffles! Who likes pancakes? Jamie likes pancakes!"
James has been strapped into his high-chair and is tapping his little hands on the tray in sync with whatever melody father is singing.
"Who likes french toast? Jamie likes french toast!"
Then Jamie chimes in with a series of dots that I can only assume to be the chorus.
"Do you think he's having a stroke?", Kent whispers to me.
"We could always hope…", I reply.
"Oh, you like singing, don't you?", Father chuckles.
"Ah, boys you're here", he says as he spots us in the doorway.
"How do you want your eggs? Sunnyside? Scrambled?"
Our father picks out an egg from a cartoon on the counter and in one swift motion he cracks it on the edge of the pan. I can hear it sizzle as he flicks the content into the pan.
And out of all the things that are wrong with this image, this is what makes me object.
"You're cooking?"
"Please Aaron, I can handle a waffle iron", he says.
"Is that syrup?!", Kent suddenly gasps next to me. I can tell he is trying to restrain his awe, but he's practically drooling.
It was syrup. Flown in from Canada. And the eggs were collected from free-range chickens. And all the dairy was probably handcrafted on some cute little farm where they manually milked cows allowed to eat real grass if anyone had bothered to ask.
I didn't. I was focused on cutting the squares two by one and sticking them in my mouth. Normally I find the syrup to be too sweet, but now it's not that much of a problem. The texture light and fluffy and it sucks up the liquid without becoming too soggy.
I find it hard to imagine that my father used his hands to create these.
Father, who is assisting James by cutting his food into edible pieces. Kent is watching them from across the kitchen island. Despite his enthusiasm for the syrup he hasn't started eating.
"Juice", James remarks and points as a guard places a pitcher on the countertop.
"Would you like some juice, Jamie?", Father asks him, and James nods. Father pours it into a ridiculous looking children's cup with a dog head serving as the lid. To my surprise, and slight amusement, James is equally as unimpressed and immediately frowns at the cup.
"I want real glass", he tells Father and holds the cup out for Father to take it back.
"You may not have a glass", Father tells him.
James doesn't even try to argue his case or ask our father to explain it. Instead, he turns to Kent.
"Addie", he says and prompts him to do something with the cup by waving at him.
When Kent hesitates for too long, however, James takes matter into his own hands: He tries to pry the lid off himself.
"No...", Father scolds and reaches out to intersect James' hands.
"You'll make a mess", he tells him.
There is a short battle of wills with James scowling at the Supreme commander, looking like he might just throw the cup at him, but eventually, he just sets it down and focuses on the scrambled eggs he has been given.
"...hey, Dad?", Kent says in an attempt to distract him from the toddler.
"Yeah?"
"Don't you have, like, work or something?"
"You mean if I have time to make waffles?", Father muses with a smirk before taking a sip of his coffee.
"I was wondering about that too", I perk up.
"We've made a slight rearrangement of my duties. Just until you guys settle in and we get a routine in place", he explains.
I suddenly sense a spark of delight and I turn my head just in time to see James popping the lid off the cup. He drops it over the side of the high chair, looking straight at Father as he does it.
If Father called me cheeky yesterday I have no idea how to describe my youngest brother.
Kent and I hold our breaths as we wait for a reaction. To our shared surprise Father just watches in interest as James proudly brings up the cup and has a drink.
"Did you get the lid off yourself?", Father asks him.
"Yes. And no mess", James replies.
"I've never seen a two-year-old do that", Father remarks.
"You're a little genius aren't you!", he commends and bops the toddler on the nose.
Breakfast continues in the same fashion; Father cooing at how neat James is eating and when he thinks we're being too quiet probes us for compliments on the waffles.
"Boys, go make your beds", he instructs us as he unstraps James from the highchair.
"While I get this baby dressed", he cooes and kisses the toddler. James hums in agreement.
Kent and I escape the kitchen without further prompting.
As we pass my door I glance over my shoulder to see a guard disappear from view and I follow Kent into his assigned room. My brother doesn't realize I've followed him until I close the door behind us.
His eyes widen.
"Dude, Dad's going to come in here any minute to make sure I've made my bed."
"You seriously haven't made your bed yet?", I sneer, despite the evidence displayed on the largest piece of furniture in the room. It looks like he has kicked off the comforter in his sleep.
"Were the routines I imposed in the barracks not enough to drill some civilized routines into you?", I ask him.
"Oh, I'm sorry, waking up as an nine-year-old has me slightly disoriented from my usual morning routine…!", he counters.
I don't attempt to argue with him. Not when time is already limited.
"Do you remember anything from up until yesterday?", I ask.
He shrugs as he starts to arrange the pillows.
"I remember the gym", he tells me. "I think they kept me sedated afterward. I woke up at some point. Dad was there, so I thought it was just a nightmare."
"Dad was there? What was he doing?"
"I don't know. He was talking about my weight or something. Someone was complaining that they couldn't check everything if I was unconscious..."
"Any details about the room?"
"...no, just sound. I think I was strapped down", he says and picks up the comforter. He glances at me still standing by the door.
"By the way are you gonna help me or what?"
"Kent, you can make your own bed", I say.
"My arms are shorter now...", he tries to protest.
I do not move to help him.
"Sounds like they were doing a physical evaluation. That's probably why you had to wait to be... turned."
"...why would they need to do that?"
"Dad said that they had to calculate the dose. He has kept tabs on my physical health since I was a child. He had all the info they needed. Your, and especially James' since he lived outside the compound, records most likely lacked what they needed."
His face pales. I'm guessing because of the suggestion that someone examined James. That our Father might have been there. And Kent hadn't been able to do anything about it. But it's only a guess.
"What about the others? Kenji and Castle. Have you heard anything?", he asks me.
"The Pointers have all been locked up", I reply.
He waits for me to continue. I don't.
"And Juliette…?"
I inhale.
I'm silent for one, two, three four-
Exhale.
His face falls.
"Aw, fuck man..."
He rests his weight forward on the bed.
"Fuck…!"
He's frowning too hard.
"Don't cry."
It only takes two words for him to look up, startled. His blue eyes are too shiny already.
"Or do you want to be coddled as soon as he sees you with puffy eyes?"
It's enough to make him reign in the tears. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. Sniffs.
"Any idea where they are?"
I'm about to tell him that I've already tried when I remember my laptop. I had forgotten about it amid yesterday's events. I consider the time that has passed since we left the kitchen. How long does it take to dress a toddler?
"Follow me", I order him and walk out the room; and he does.
I quickly walk around the bed to the desk where the laptop is laying since yesterday, still underneath the stack of books.
"Sit", I tell him and point at the bed; and he does while I turn it on.
"Here, log in", I say as I place the laptop in his lap.
"Huh?!"
"Did I stutter?"
He scowls.
"Why can't you do it?", he asks.
"He disabled my login", I lie.
He gives me a look but does as I've asked. And despite my distaste at seeing his fingers touch my computer the letters and numbers are typed in.
He hits enter.
"Hey…!", he complains as I retrieve the computer.
I'm about to snap back at him that he was only meant to unlock the computer when my eyes land on the screen.
Something's wrong.
The font. The icons. The background is a disgusting gradient of purple to magenta. Even the cursor is different. It's chubby.
This is not the interface of the RE database.
"What on-?"
"Boys."
Kent's startles next to me and his head whips around. I don't need to look to know that our father is standing in the doorway.
A cheerful Addie proves that James is also in the proximity.
"You need to do the writing part first."
"Writing part?", Kent asks.
It's a test. Pen and paper. It's a wide range of topics. Some multiple-choice, like grammar. The math ones have an area for calculations. The scientific ones require some sort of motivation.
"Do your best", father said before he brought James with him into his office.
At first, I was annoyed at how easy they were.
Give the local extreme values of the function within the given limits.
Some are language-based. In Spanish. ¿Qué palabra falta? Another in Russian. завершить это.
Give an example of a chemical reaction with Ammonium nitrate
Ammonium nitrate. A common ingredient in fertilizers. Capable of creating an exothermic reaction. What is needed to cause the reaction?
There is a periodic table provided. Enthalpy echoes in my head. Something about needing energy to break the bonds and assemble the new molecules. I flip the pages for an appendix. A table of some sort. Anything to give me a clue.
When I come up empty-handed, I realize that I have known this. I know I have. I know because my father put me in an airtight room where I had to improvise a bomb without killing myself in the explosion. How old had I been? Thirteen? Fourteen?
And that I don't remember anymore.
I don't remember.
Three words that have echoed in my head for the past three days.
I look over at Kent, who is frowning at his paper. His pen at a stand-still. And I wonder: Is he experiencing the same thing?
Just a small disclaimer: I don't actually know if it's possible to explode something in an airtight room without dying because of the change of pressure. If you happen to know, feel free to educate me.
Thanks for reading :)