They soon made it out of Sector Four. They slowed to a walk, allowing Mark, who was curious as to something Byron had said, to catch up with Byron.
"Back there," he said, "At the Work Center, the guard said that you were a Former Secret Service Agent." The Secret Service was, to some, a fictional group of highly trained individuals who worked in the shadows to maintain order. Many doubted their existence, but some believed the dark whispers that were told about the underground assembly. According to local legend, the Secret Service killed those who defected from their society, making Mark wonder how Byron was still alive.
"And you're wondering if he was right."
"Well…yeah."
"To put it bluntly, yes, he was correct." Mark stood, silent for a moment, before asking, almost in a whisper, "So then it's true? The Secret Service exists?"
"Yes."
"He said you were a Former Agent. How'd you get out?"
"It's a rather personal subject, Mark; I don't like talking about it."
"Oh…well, I'm sorry, I-"
"No, it's perfectly fine. I've invaded your privacy; I've read your thoughts. I know everything about you, so you have a right to know.
"I was recruited at sixteen; the youngest Agent in the history of the society. They chose me because I had accelerated through the levels of the Academy at an unthinkable speed, making me a most logical choice for an Agent. I was only involved in the society for a year before they discovered my ability."
"How?"
Byron frowned, wondering if he should tell Mark. If he did, it might be possible that he would go into another Dive.
"A friend," Byron said, "betrayed me. Although it wasn't really her fault. I was to be promoted to a higher level in the Service, but was denied my advancement. I wondered why, and began searching for answers. I found that there were eight other people like me, all under surveillance. How I wasn't, I had no idea. But I found out something else, also, and the head of the Service took notice of my secret hunt. They wanted to know why, and began searching for the reason. Soon they came across the," Byron's voice cracked, "person I was closest to; Veronica Garrett. They drugged her and interrogated her, the one person I had told of my ability. The Service learned of my mutation, and set out to kill me. I ran to a place we had made, Veronica and me, and found her there. She told me what she had done. I was willing to forgive her, but she wasn't," Byron struggled to maintain a steady breath, "She killed herself. She shot herself in the head, right there, in front of me. And then I ran. I ran from Sector Seven, jumped on a train outside of the Sector, and rode to Sector Three, where I devised a plan. I would not let anybody else be hurt because of their abilities, just because they're different. I knew there were more; I would look for them. And then we'd all leave."
Byron looked up, realizing that all three of his companions were listening now. He had gone into a Dive, but a different kind, where he narrated his memories instead of just thinking about them. This kind seemed to be more energy draining. The four stood, in the middle of the field, silent.
"I'm so sorry, Byron," Phoebe said finally.
"No need," said Byron, wiping the tears out of his eyes, "It's almost dark. Stephen, count out our supplies. Mark, start a fire. We'll need some rest tonight."
Peyton Burton walked the long, dark halls of the President's Mansion. He didn't know why, but President Xandar preferred to keep his Mansion dull, devoid of any unnecessary light.
He had been called to an emergency meeting with the other Sector Zero officials. Peyton was the head of the Secret Service and, to everyone except for the people he was about to meet with, didn't exist.
He sat at the short, round table. Only eleven people, occasionally twelve, when the President decided to show up, ever were seated at this table. The eight governors of the Sectors, Timothy Ormiston of Sector One, Harold Adams of Sector Two, Cassandra Moore of Sector Three, Lee Wallace of Sector Four, Genie Scott of Sector Five, Williard Poore of Sector Six, Karla Martin of Sector Seven, and Sarah Spyre of Sector Eight. Charles Hammok was the Council's announcer. Charles kept order and arrangement in the meetings. Other than these were Thomas Garek, the Nation's war coordinator, and Peyton himself.
Charles began speaking, but Thomas interrupted him. "We all know why we're here," he said, "The Unnatural." 'Unnatural' was the name the populace had given to the people who kept popping up around the Nation with extraordinary powers.
"Thomas," Genie Scott, the oldest on the Council, besides the President, scolded, "Wait for Charles to finish."
"He's right, though," said Sarah Spyre, "Something has to be done with them."
"Yes," Lee Wallace agreed, "They're running unchecked, destroying property, causing thousands of dollars, if not tens of thousands, in damage, not to mention lives."
"I can send legions in for them," Timothy Ormiston said, "We'll kill them easily."
"We'll have to move quickly, though," said Thomas, "They seem to be uniting, gathering to each other. We need to strike before they can get together and hit us. They're strong enough on their own."
"No," interjected Peyton. The Council turned to eye him. He hardly ever made such sudden outbursts. "We can't kill them," he continued, "We need to use them. We don't want another 2047 incident." The Council shivered at the thought of another attack like the one the Nation had experienced almost a hundred years ago. "The Leonics will be back, and probably stronger than before. These Unnatural could help us significantly if that were to happen again."
"So we capture them," said Williard Poore, "We've already taken one captive."
"How?" asked Karla Martin.
"Keep using the means we currently are," said Peyton, "except intensify them. Send in helicopters, tanks, do whatever you can, but make sure that they survive."
"You realize," said Charles, "that, since you made this suggestion, you should be the one to oversee the Unnatural once they are caught."
"I accept full responsibility," Peyton said.
"But what if they manage to get away?" said Thomas, "We need a Plan B."
"It's easy, Garek," came a high, sing-songy voice from in the corner. The only things visible were a crossed pair of boots and two crossed clawed hands, fingers intertwined. Even with his vague appearance, Peyton knew who it was standing in the corner.
President Xandar.
"We make another Sector," he said, yellow eyes glinting in the shadows.
Mark awoke inside a house. Where was he? He was supposed to be outside in the plains, awaiting the morning so that they would go to Sector Five. Had it all been a dream? No; this was not his bed. He wasn't in his home. Shouts from downstairs made him jump. He lept out of the bed and walked downstairs quietly.
"We can't afford any food!" Mark heard.
"Don't blame me," came a weak response, "It's not my fault."
Mark walked into a room with two couches and a chair with a threadbare cushion. The shouts had come from an adjacent room. He crept into a doorway that looked like there had once been a door, but it had been long since ripped off its hinges. He saw two people in the room, which was a kitchen, only one of them familiar. Mark saw Phoebe cowering before a tall woman who stood over her.
"Yes, it is, you know that!" said the woman.
"No it's not!" Phoebe rejected.
"Excuse me?"
"All you spend our money on i-"
"Don't use that excuse with me! Maybe if you did something with your miserable self and got a job we'd have more money!" The woman raised her hand up to hit Phoebe, but stopped before her hand made contact. Phoebe stood up straight, looking at a metal bracelet that the woman was wearing. The woman looked confused and frustrated. Her hand flew back, connecting with the wall. The woman groaned in pain. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. She gasped for breath. Her free hand began clutching at her throat. A necklace tightened around it, keeping her from breathing. She tried to talk, but no air could escape her mouth. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and Mark's eyes opened.
Mark and Phoebe awoke at exactly the same moment. Mark looked at Phoebe, a confused look on his face. Phoebe didn't notice, putting her hand to her forehead. Mark stood and began walking, trying to find Byron. He found him standing, looking off into the distance at Sector Five.
"That was you, wasn't it?" Mark said accusingly.
"Yes," he said, not reverting his gaze, "I allowed you to access Phoebe's dream."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted you to see Phoebe for who she truly is before you try to make a serious relationship."
"You wanted me to see that she is willing to defend herself?"
"To a lethal point, yes."
"How do I know that you weren't trying to manipulate me?"
"You'll have to trust me, Mark," said Byron, an agitated tone in his voice, "I told you I didn't want you to be hurt. And I don't. I did this to keep you from future pain."
"Well, know this: I don't care if Phoebe's willing to kill in self-defense or not."
"Then you passed the test, if that is true."
Mark stood next to Byron, silent for a moment.
"But did she really do that?" he said after a pause.
"No," Byron replied, "She didn't kill her mother, but she wished to, several times. Her parents abused her, used whatever money came into the house to buy drugs. The scenario was real, the conclusion was not."
Mark nodded, however, he wondered if Byron was wrong; maybe Phoebe really wouldn't kill, even in self-defense.