Chapter Twenty: At Their Hearts
Later that evening, the Resistance reconvened in the Map Room. I immediately noticed that Quin was absent. I found a seat next to Max and Elana.
"Where's Quin?" I asked with concern, unable to shake the way he had cowered to Augustus.
Max shook his head. "He's been restricted from the meeting. Punishment."
"Punishment?" I asked incredulously.
Elana nodded. "Augustus has always taken a special interest in Quin." Her tone suggested disapproval. "Right after Augustus was elected, he found Quin living on the street. He made him the youngest Council member. I think Quin views him as a father."
Augustus cleared his throat and began speaking before she could say anymore. Cason joined him at the front of the room, his face chiseled and emotionless.
"Members of the Resistance, we have a matter of great concern. Today, during our regular patrols, we discovered the bodies of ten Guardian Force recruits washed ashore near Pier 33. Mr. Caruso has confirmed through his sources outside the city that at least five of them had been recently extricated from the Guardian program. We suspect, with further investigation, we will confirm that all of the casualties failed to meet Guardian Force standards and were rejected for further experimentation. Each was killed with a single bullet to the back of the head. As you know, this is the second such discovery in the past month. We believe that, by ordering these executions, the leader of the Guardian Force, General Jamison Ryker, has intended to send us a message. But we will not be deterred in our cause. "
I glanced at Max, remembering our conversation from the morning and the question I had left unasked. Now I had the answer and wished that I didn't.
Augustus continued, "I know that those of you who have defected are anxious to learn the identities of the victims. We will obtain and disseminate the information as soon as we are able."
From the back of the room, a man's thundering voice demanded, "What are we going to do about it?"
Another voice joined. "We can't just let them get away with it!"
And another shouted, "We've been passive for too long. What are we waiting for?"
Suddenly, the room was alive with anger. I snuck a look at Augustus. He appeared annoyed, as if he was in the middle of a swarm of mosquitoes that he couldn't swat fast enough.
"Quiet!" Cason's voice commandeered the crowd. Still, his face was stoic.
With the room momentarily silenced, Augustus spoke, raising his voice slightly—enough to appear powerful, but not so much as to seem threatening. I sensed that he was skilled at manipulation. "I understand all of your concerns. When you elected me your leader, you entrusted me to carry out the vision of the Resistance. An attack at this time would be unwise and would lead to the deaths of many of the Guardian Force, whom we know to be innocent victims of a cruel and dangerous experiment. We must be patient. When we are ready, we will strike them at their hearts."
After the meeting, I approached Augustus. In this public forum, I hoped he would wear his charming face.
"How can I help you, Ms. Knightley?" He was pleasant, but the tone of his voice suggested that he had no intention of helping me.
"I was hoping that I could speak to my mother and let her know that I've arrived safely. It's been almost a month since I saw her." I allowed my eyes to fill with tears.
Augustus looked directly at me, examining me. "I have already spoken with her. She is aware of your arrival."
I knew he was lying. I rapid-fired questions at him, but they fell away, leaving him unscathed.
"Why didn't you tell me? I have to talk to her. What did she say to you?"
No response.
"What's on that flash drive? I almost died getting it here. I have a right to know."
Nothing.
I felt a wave of rage swelling up inside me, crashing over my sadness, enveloping it. I quickly wiped away a tear.
"Ms. Knightley, this is a secure compound. We cannot risk our safety by overindulging our emotions. Your mother understands that. You would do well to follow her example. As long as it is safe to do so, you will speak to your mother soon. You have my word."
Afterward, I sat by myself on the floor in a corner of the room. The tile felt cold beneath my legs. I buried my face in my hands, my tears marking tiny tracks down my cheeks. All those nights in the empty library, and I had never felt so alone. I tried to imagine my mother's face, but it was blurred, misshapen, a puzzle I could no longer solve. I forced myself to consider the unthinkable—I might never see her again. The thought was nearly paralyzing, like sinking through cold mud. I wondered how long Quin had felt this way before he made an attempt to stop feeling entirely.
A cold nose touched my hand, and I looked up to see Artos' green eyes looking back at me. He licked my face, and I couldn't help but giggle. He plopped down beside me, giving me a long-tongued grin as I rubbed his belly and underneath his thick, nylon collar.
"He likes you," Quin remarked from the doorway.
I wiped my face on my sleeve, embarrassed. Quin sat down next to me on the floor, our legs almost touching.
"What's wrong?" he asked softly.
"Nothing." I sounded like Quin.
"Now who's being difficult?" His boyish laugh soothed me. For a moment, I felt like everything that had gone wrong might be made right again.
"How did you find Artos?" I asked, still stroking his soft fur.
"He found me. It was just after I escaped the Guardians. He started following me. I told him to go away, to go home, but he wouldn't stop. After a while, I didn't want him to go away."
Quin reached over and rubbed Artos' head. Artos leaned in, content. "I guess I'm like that with people too," Quin added, smiling at me.
"What happened today with Augustus?" I asked. "He treated you horribly."
Quin shrugged. "He didn't mean anything by it. He's just trying to help me. He's always been tough with me, but I know that he cares. If it wasn't for him, I don't know what would've happened to me. He told the Resistance they could trust me. Even though I had . . ."
He paused. I suspected he was censoring himself. "Even though I'd been a Guardian."
As Quin spoke, I began to understand Augustus' power over him. Whatever Quin had done, he'd convinced himself it was unforgivable.
Even if Quin didn't believe me, I knew I had to confide in someone. The weight of the last few days was too heavy to bear alone. I started with the flash drive and Augustus' warning and finished with his probable lie about my mother and his cold indifference to my tears. Quin listened intently.
When I finished, he tried to comfort me. "If Augustus gave you his word, then it will happen. I trust him, Lex."
Quin put his hand on my knee, sending a flutter through me as if he had softly blown on the dandelion pieces of my heart. It was the first time he'd touched me with intention. I noticed a small scar across his knuckles.
I wanted to ask him why he trusted Augustus—why, my favorite question—but I held back. I knew if I pushed him, the sliver of an opening in the wall of Quin would seal up again. Instead, I summoned all of my courage and placed my hand on his.
Chapter Twenty-One: Empathy
The following day, a dark unease settled over Resistance headquarters. I hardly left my room, but each time I did, I felt uncertainty hanging over me like a poisonous cloud. Although Augustus had been masterful in squashing the anger of the crowd, his stifling had driven it underground. Each time I entered the dining hall, I saw people huddled in tight groups, speaking purposefully. Unrest was snaking its way through the Resistance like a thick, unwieldy vine.
As for me, my own private upheaval continued. Mostly, I thought of my mother and the flash drive that I had surrendered to Augustus. Though its contents were a mystery to me, it was obviously of great importance to him. In the months following the evacuation of the city, my mother began spending more time alone in our garage, which my father had long ago converted to her office and laboratory. Sometimes she wouldn't emerge until late in the evening, her eyes red and underscored with dark circles. Once, only once, had I asked my mother what she was working on.
"It's better that you don't know, Lex," she said. "I want to protect you as long as I can. So many people have already been hurt."
At the time, I assumed she was thinking of my father and how her ambition had driven him away, pushing him to the periphery of her life until he had no choice but to disappear. But now, I was no longer certain.
Of course, I also thought of Quin. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warmth of his hand under mine. The touch had lasted only a few seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—before he had taken his hand away and stood to say goodnight. It was probably just a friendly gesture, his touching my knee. I told myself it meant nothing to him. Of course, to me, it meant the complete opposite of nothing, and I knew I was in trouble.
Seeking an escape from my nagging thoughts, I decided to explore the compound, as Augustus had referred to it. I meandered past the dining hall and the armory. I knew where I was headed. The laboratory was locked, but I caught the eye of a middle-aged woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sitting in front of a computer screen. Hearing my knock, she rushed eagerly to the door.
"Ms. Knightley, it's an honor to meet you," she said. "I admire your mother's work."
I saw that she wore a badge with a familiar logo. Underneath, it read, Carrie Donovan. I pointed to it. "Are you Carrie?"
"Yes, of course. I'm so sorry. Carrie Donovan. This is my old work badge from Zenigenic. I wear it to remind me of the destruction science can cause if left unchecked by common sense." Tongue in cheek, she parroted the slogan, "How do you want to feel today?"
I chuckled. "I thought the logo looked familiar. How long did you work there?"
"Just one year. It was after your mother had . . . left." She politely omitted the word resigned. "My supervisor asked me to misrepresent some of our findings related to Emovere's side effects. When I refused, I was fired."
"What are you working on?" I asked.
"Let me show you," she said excitedly, gesturing me toward the computer. I could tell Carrie was a pure scientist at heart, eager to share her discoveries.
On the screen was a spreadsheet with copious amounts of data. In one of the columns, I instantly recognized a name, Elliot Barnes—the dead man.
"This is a compilation of the blood analyses for all deceased Guardian Force." She said the word deceased matter-of-factly as if she was reading it from a book.
She pointed to several columns of the spreadsheet. "As you can see, over time, we have detected increasingly larger amounts of Emovere. In Elliot and the casualties discovered yesterday, the concentration was twenty times the prescribed dose."
I attempted to disguise my horror, but inside, I was aghast. Twenty times?
"But what's really interesting," she continued, "is this." She pointed to two additional columns marked Agitor and Substance X.
As I studied the data curiously, the laboratory door opened and Vera Bullock bounced inside enthusiastically. She had the look of a first-grade teacher, small and plump, her cheeks like apples. Immediately, she walked over to us, nosily glancing over my shoulder at the spreadsheet.
"What are you up to, Alexandra?" she asked. Her tone implied that we knew each other well.
I considered her with uncertainty. She seemed harmless.
"Carrie was explaining some of the Guardian Force data that you've all been compiling." I glanced at Carrie nervously, fearing I had shared too much.
"My goodness," Vera replied, shaking her head. "I certainly hope she hasn't overwhelmed you. This information can be quite confusing, even distressing, for someone so young." She patted my shoulder gingerly as if I might break at any moment.
Carrie interrupted. "Luckily for her, Alexandra has had an exceptional teacher in her mother. I'm sure she can handle it. Now, if you'll excuse us, Vera . . ." Carrie turned the computer screen toward her, away from Vera's prying eyes.
Looking scolded, Vera slinked away from the computer and left the room without a word.
"Sorry about that. Vera can be a bit overbearing at times, but she means well."
Carrie turned her attention back to the columns of data. "As you know, we've also detected trace amounts of other emotion-altering drugs in the Guardian Force blood samples, including Agitor. We believe that, in combination with Emovere, Agitor may increase aggression."
I placed my finger on the screen. "What's Substance X?"
Carrie smiled. "That's the million-dollar question, Ms. Knightley. We don't know. Our working hypothesis is that it acts to impair the supramarginal gyrus."
I looked at her quizzically. "The supra-what?"
"I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "I keep forgetting you're not your mother." Carrie laughed, a nervous twitter.
She pointed to a diagram of the brain on the wall behind us. "The supramarginal gyrus is here," she said, putting her finger at the junction of the parietal, temporal, and frontal lobes of the brain.
"What does it do?" I asked.
Carrie paused for a long time. Unsmiling, she replied, "Empathy."
Chapter Twenty-Two: Ambushed
As I left the lab with the word empathy drumming in my brain, I saw a group congregating near the outer door that led back to the platform. At the periphery were Max, Quin, and Elana.
I pulled Elana aside. "What's going on?"
She gestured toward a tall and wiry young man with dark-framed glasses. I glanced at his forearm. No tattoo. He was speaking to the group in a hushed tone.
"Markus is leading a small group to investigate the murders at Pier 33. He thinks there may be more . . . bodies. We're going with him," she said.
Markus admonished Elana with his stern brow. "It's supposed to be a secret, remember?" Looking to me, he added, "Augustus doesn't know."
Elana shrugged. "It's Lex," she said, as if that explained everything. "Besides, I thought she might want to come with us."
Though the idea of disobeying Augustus was appealing, the thought of encountering the Guardians was not. "Um . . . I don't know, Elana . . . I—"
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Quin interrupted.
"Why not?" I asked. Now that Quin had challenged me, I suddenly felt brave.
Quin seemed momentarily dumbfounded.
"He's worried about you, Alexandra." Max teased.
I looked away from Quin, my cheeks reddening.
"Whatever." Quin replied dismissively, turning back toward the group.
Max winked at me. "Get this girl a weapon," he said, chuckling.
Markus handed me a gun. It was heavier than the one my mother had given me. I slipped the gun into my waistband carefully. The idea of firing a gun again unnerved me. But I wasn't about to let Quin see my uncertainty, and I could feel his eyes watching me.
"I think it's safe to leave now," Markus said, consulting his watch. "Augustus is scheduled to be at a meeting in the lab with Dr. Bell for the next hour."
Within a few minutes, we were outside, heading toward The Embarcadero. The fog had set in again, muting the sun with a cold, gray veil. As we neared the water, I could see rows of palm trees, their tall green stalks breaking through the cloud cover. Quin stayed noticeably close to me.
"I think we should split up to cover more ground," Markus said to the group. He pointed to Max, Quin, Elana, and me. "You four come with me. We'll check out Pier 33, while the rest of you head down toward Pier 39. Meet back at headquarters in twenty minutes."
When we arrived at the Pier 33 building, Quin touched my arm and whispered. "Be careful, okay?"
I nodded, feeling a surge of warmth. He was worried about me.
From just behind me, Max muttered, "I told you."
"Shhh," Markus hissed. "I hear something."
From just inside the building, there was a rhythmic creaking, an eerie to and fro. The methodical squeak sliced the silence like a razor. Ambush. The thought—a hunch, really—came from nowhere, but it resonated through my body.
"Markus," I called, but he was already walking inside. Max and Elana followed him.
I turned to Quin. "What if the Guardians are expecting us?" I asked. He slid his gun from his belt, motioning for me to do the same.
Inside, it was so dark that, for a moment, I could barely see Quin in front of me. I squinted my eyes tight, waiting for them to adjust to the blackness.
Reaching behind him for my arm, Quin pulled me along. "Stay close," he cautioned. From up ahead, I heard the click of a flashlight and a gasp.
Markus was standing at the back of the building, holding the light to one of the metal rafters. Swaying back and forth, a rope around her neck, was a woman's body. On her Guardian Force uniform, the mark of the Resistance was painted in red, an obvious message. Her head hung down lifelessly so I couldn't see her face, but I imagined it was permanently frozen in terror.
Before I could react, a gunshot pierced the air. Markus fell to the ground, clutching his leg. His flashlight rolled into the center of the room before a big, black boot kicked it out of sight.
Quin and I ducked behind a row of shipping containers just in time to dodge a volley of gunfire that pinged against the metal crates. Our eyes connected in a moment of panic.
"We have to get out of here," I said.
Nearby, Max and Elana were concealed by a forklift. Markus was stumbling toward them, firing haphazardly over his shoulder. With relief, he slumped down next to Elana.
Quin fired several shots into the darkness. I kneeled next to him, aiming my gun at nothingness. With each successive squeeze of my trigger—one, two, three—I saw Elliot in my mind as he fell. After firing a few times, I sat back on the ground, frustrated with myself. Behind me, my hand touched something hard and rubbery—a tire.
"Any ideas?" Quin asked me, as he leaned from behind the containers to shoot again. Bullets whizzed by like attack bees, viciously stinging the air.
"One . . . but it might not work." I pointed downward, lifting the thick tarp to show Quin my discovery—a car.
Quin nodded. "If it works, it's brilliant. If it doesn't, we'll die." He beckoned Max over to us, mouthing the word run.
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, hoisting myself to a crouch and peering under the tarp.
As Quin fired, Max and the others ran toward us.
From the dark corner opposite our hiding place, a Guardian emerged. She stalked toward us, blank-faced, glass-eyed, launching bullet after bullet. When she drew closer, I could see a trail of blood circling her neck, her flesh splayed. Ignoring her wounds, she advanced her fearless onslaught with no apparent concern for herself. Quin took cover, his gun empty, just as Max fired a shot. Her body struck the ground with a sickening thump.
I looked at Quin with relief.
"That was a little too close for comfort," Max said, exhaling. "I hope you two have a plan. I'm almost out of ammo, and I can't even see who I'm shooting at."
"Are you okay?" Quin asked Markus, considering his wounded leg with concern.
Markus shrugged, but his face was contorted in pain. "It's just a graze, but I've been better."
Another round of bullets struck the forklift—their rat-tat-tatting was deafening.
"This is the plan," Quin announced, pointing to the car, still concealed beneath its cover.
"A tarp?" Max asked with disbelief. "A tarp is the plan?" He lifted his head and returned fire.
"It's a car," I told Max.
Deftly, Quin scooted beneath the tarp and out of sight. I heard the click of the door handle opening. Then Quin's voice. "No keys."
"Check under the mat," Max offered.
A few seconds later, Quin's hand appeared from under the tarp. In it was a single key.
One by one, we climbed inside the dark tomb of the car. Max was last. He continued firing until he was out of ammunition. I wedged myself next to Elana in the passenger seat, listening to her rapid breathing.
"Here goes," Quin said. "Get down and hold on tight."
Lowering my head beneath the dashboard, I held my breath until I heard the engine roar to life. Overshadowing its melodious sound was gunfire. I braced myself as Quin floored the accelerator—tires screeching—torpedoing us blindly from the building, casting the tarp high up into the air.
I didn't look up or open my eyes until the car stopped a block from Resistance headquarters. Even so, I knew we were going fast. Each breakneck turn pressed against my body forcefully as if I was being pushed.
We bailed out quickly and ran the rest of the way, Markus leaning on Max and Quin. The other group who had accompanied us was already waiting just outside the door, their faces quizzical and alarmed.
"What are you going to tell Augustus?" I asked Markus, once we were safely inside.
Glancing sidelong at Quin, Max suggested, "I think you should tell him you got hit by a reckless driver."
Quin volleyed back at him. "You have to admit, if we hadn't almost died, that would've been kind of fun."
I narrowed my eyes at Quin skeptically. Fun?
"How'd you learn to drive like that?" I asked.
Quin grinned back at me slyly, but didn't answer.
Max chuckled. "What is that old saying? Drive it like you stole it. You know something about that, right, Quin?"
Quin shook his head, laughing. Apparently, in another life—the one I could only guess about—he had been a car thief. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Like a lot of things about Quin, it was double-edged, both exciting and unnerving.
Turning his eyes to me, Quin's smile softened. "That was a really good idea, Lex. I'm glad you came."
"Looks like she didn't need protecting after all," Max said, punching Quin in the arm playfully.
I waited for Quin to agree. He said nothing, but even better—so much better—he slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight squeeze.
My contentment evaporated like smoke when I saw Augustus and Cason standing by the platform, glowering. They were already lecturing Markus as we approached.
Augustus addressed Quin, "Were you involved in this unauthorized mission as well, Mr. McAllister?"
Quin gave a solemn nod.
Shaking his head disapprovingly, Augustus said, "You continue to disappoint me, Quin." Augustus seemed to have masterful command of all of Quin's buttons, pushing them at will.
"And Ms. Knightley, Ms. Hamilton, were you involved as well?"
Cason laughed, appraising Elana and me with a patronizing once-over. "Doubtful," he concluded.
I looked down at my feet. Before either of us could answer, Quin spoke for us. "No, they weren't there."
I started to protest, but Augustus turned back to Markus and Quin, apparently satisfied. "Well then, let's discuss your transgressions in my office . . . in private."
Chapter Twenty-Three: Blackout
I was returning to my room the following evening when the Resistance went dark. The blackouts had been more frequent in the last few days, usually lasting two or more hours. During an outage, we were instructed to return to our sleeping quarters since each room was equipped with a battery-powered lantern. As I fumbled with my flashlight, I heard a familiar voice in my ear.
"Meet me at the entrance in five minutes." It was Quin.
Five and a half minutes later, I stood with Quin, outside headquarters for the third time since my arrival. We had exited through a side door, marked EMERGENCY ONLY, the alarm dead, along with the lights. The frigid evening air was a shock to my body, but it felt invigorating. Quin shivered and zipped the leather jacket he had been wearing the night we met.
"I want to show you something," he said, "but we have to be fast."
"Are you sure you want to do this, Quin? Augustus is already furious with you."
He shrugged. "He'll get over it. Besides, as long as we're back before the power comes on, we have nothing to worry about."
We speed-walked for more than a mile into the heart of the city. I followed closely behind Quin. We cautiously dodged the cameras' all-seeing eyes, even though it was likely the blackout had cut the Guardians' surveillance feed. As we neared Telegraph Hill, the path grew increasingly steeper. My legs burned, and the frigid air stung my lungs.
Quin shined his flashlight upward, spotlighting Coit Tower, which shot up into the evening sky like the tail of a comet. Not even this once-majestic landmark had escaped destruction. At the base of the tower, I could see graffiti and crumbling rock. Quin pushed his shoulder into the tower's door several times before it opened with a thud. Inside, the air was stale and bitterly cold.
"This way." Quin pointed up a spiraling staircase. When we reached the observation deck, Quin extinguished his flashlight. The soft glow from the setting sun barely illuminated the city. From up here, I could almost forget the desolation below. But as I looked toward the Bay Bridge, I gasped. The reports that my mother and I had heard were correct. The highway was split into two distinct pieces with only sky in between them. A portion of the bridge had fallen away and was frozen in a sharp descent toward the water.
I looked over my shoulder expecting to see Quin, eager to ask him about the bridge. But he was kneeling on the opposite end of the deck in a spot where the concrete was broken away.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
Quin didn't answer, but began moving aside some of the broken pieces of stone. The sky was almost dark now, concealing him in shadow. I saw him slip something into his jacket, then pick up another smaller object before standing to face me.
"You said that you couldn't figure me out. That's because you don't know anything about me." Quin took a step toward me, his hand extended. "This is something about me." He handed me a book of poetry. It was so well-worn that its cover was soft.
"It was my mother's," he said. "Just like your book. This is the only part of her I have left. Before I joined the Guardians, I used to come up here a lot to escape from the world. Right after I went AWOL, I hid the book here. I figured it would be safer."
I knew Quin had hidden something else here—something he had concealed in his jacket. But I bit my tongue, holding my question until the time felt right.
Just like my book, Quin's book had a dog-eared page. I flipped to it: Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken."
"Was this her favorite?" I asked.
Quin smiled. "No, it's mine."
"I never figured you for a poet," I joked.
Quin laughed, but only for a moment. Then his face became serious. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Lex. I'm sorry that I haven't . . . that I couldn't . . . that I can't . . . be more . . . open with you." His face looked defeated as he stumbled over his words.
I shrugged, giving him a sympathetic smile. "You're trying, Quin. That counts for something."
He gave a half-hearted nod. I handed back his mother's book, and he pocketed it inside his jacket.
"Have you ever taken Emovere?" he asked.
"Never," I answered. I was surprised by the directness of his question. "What's it like?"
He sighed. "At first, it's exhilarating, freeing. You feel like nothing can stop you, like something heavy was lifted from your shoulders, and you can stand up tall again."
Quin paused, choosing his words carefully, "With everything that had happened to me, it was a welcome relief. But after a while, you just feel numb, even after you stop taking it. The worst part is that it starts to feel good to be numb."
I was surprised by his description. Even though my mother's research had shown that Emovere could be addictive, no published studies had found any lasting effects once the drug was discontinued. I wondered if the pharmaceutical companies were experimenting with the drug's composition. I made a mental note to ask Carrie later.
"That's not supposed to happen," I said.
"I know," Quin conceded. "When I was recruited by the Guardians, they assured me I could stop at any time, that there would be no side effects. But there's a reason no one else has left the Guardian Force. No one wants to stop taking Emovere."
"Do you know why you were recruited by the Guardians?" I had to know if Quin shared my hypothesis that the Guardians selected vulnerable candidates, young people who had suffered trauma.
"I have a pretty good idea," Quin answered cryptically. The tone of his voice was final, like the shutting of a door, and I knew that the subject was closed.
"It's taken me a long time to want to feel again," he said. "That's part of the reason why I'm so . . ." He searched for the right word.
"Difficult?" I smiled at him, remembering the night that we met.
"I thought you were supposed to come up with a better word," he teased.
Laughing, I turned back toward the city, placing my hands on the concrete railing. By now, the sun had fallen almost completely below the horizon. "How about complicated?" I offered.
As I spoke, I could feel Quin approaching from behind. He came close and then closer, standing directly behind me, but not touching me. The warmth of his body radiated in the space between us. I had a flash of my first kiss, my only kiss. I closed my eyes and stood very still, hoping that if I didn't move, Quin wouldn't either. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, and he was gone. The cold air rushed in behind me.
"Lex, we have to go."
"I know," I said, recalling Augustus' verbal lashing after our last venture beyond headquarters. We began to walk toward the staircase.
"Hey," I said, "what else did you put in your jacket?"
Quin chuckled. "You're pretty hard to keep secrets from, you know."
I raised my eyebrows at him with expectation.
"It's something else about me," he offered. "But I'm not ready to show you yet. One step at a time, okay?"
Just before we began our descent, I watched in alarm as across the city in small, random pockets, lights began to flicker.
Chapter Twenty-Four: A Boy's Weakness
For the second time that week, Quin and I ran side by side, this time with urgency. Unlike before, I had no trouble matching his pace. Adrenaline was coursing through me, my legs fueled by panic. No matter how fast we ran, I knew the damage was already done. Once the power was restored, the silent alarm from the emergency exit door would have sent an alert straight to Augustus. He would be waiting for us.
As we turned the final corner toward headquarters, a voice stopped my heart. Twenty feet behind us stood a man, a Guardian. For a moment, I couldn't feel my body. It seemed like my head had detached itself and was floating away.
"You're under arrest by order of the Guardian Force." The man's voice sounded as flat as a cracker, but his lips were turned in an unnatural smile. Immediately, I wondered what combination of Emovere, Agitor, and Substance X had created his eerie mismatch of emotion.
The man continued walking methodically toward us, his gun raised and ready to fire. I glanced at Quin. His face was the same as the night we had met, tight and hardened. Just as the man was within an arm's length, Quin turned suddenly, grabbed and twisted the man's hand, and struck him in the face. The gun clunked down the sidewalk, and I ran to retrieve it.
When I turned back, Quin had pinned the man to the ground with his knee and was pointing his own weapon at the man's head. Though he struggled, the man had no expression. He wasn't fearless, which might imply that he was brave. Nor proud, which might imply that he was a martyr. Nor apathetic, which might imply that he harbored a death wish. He was simply a blank slate. I tried to remember the face of the man stepping from the ledge during my mother's clinical trial. Had he been so expressionless?
Quin looked me, his eyes pained. "Run, Lex," he said, in a quiet voice that was more suggestion than command.
I didn't run, and I didn't turn away. I readied myself for the gunshot that never came.
Instead, Quin hit the man across the face with the end of his weapon, rendering him unconscious. He stood and walked to me. "I can't shoot him," he confessed. He sounded surprised, as if he was observing some other, unexpected version of himself.
"It's okay," I reassured him.
"Is it, Ms. Knightley?" From behind us, another voice, this one familiar.
Augustus didn't wait for my response. Without hesitating, he approached the Guardian and shot him, once, twice, three times. After the first shot, the man's body contorted, and I turned away, flinching with each successive explosion. When I finally looked at Augustus, he appeared satisfied, but bored, as if he had completed some mundane activity, like drinking his morning coffee.
"I hope it was worth it, Ms. Knightley." Augustus addressed only me, as if Quin was invisible. I knew his indifference would hurt Quin more than even his harshest words.
Augustus turned and pointed with intention back toward headquarters. We both began walking. He continued speaking, still addressing me alone. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been forced to shoot someone? Is this the sort of thing you bring out in others, Ms. Knightley?"
We entered through the emergency door. Two armed members of the Resistance stood inside, while a third exited. I assumed he was tasked with managing the body.
"Since your arrival here, you have compromised the security of this compound on multiple occasions. You have taken advantage of a boy's weakness." He glanced at Quin, waiting to see the stinging bite of his words as they made impact.
Quin looked pale. I was surprised when he spoke. "It's not her fault, Augustus. I asked her to leave with me. It was my decision. Besides, no one forced you to kill him."
Augustus pretended that Quin was on mute, but I felt a small surge of elation—Quin had finally stood up to Augustus, if only for a moment.
Augustus turned to the armed men. "Please escort Ms. Knightley back to her sleeping quarters."
I began walking down the long corridor, one man on either side of me. When we reached the door, I turned back to look at Quin before they shuffled me away. Augustus was facing him, speaking quietly. I couldn't hear him, but I didn't need to. Whatever he was saying had been carefully honed to a point, cold and sharp as a blade, each word a knife strike to Quin's heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Worst Thing
In the three days that followed, most of the Resistance began to subtly avoid me. I wasn't sure what Augustus had told them, but the day after the blackout, there had been a meeting in the Map Room. I wasn't invited. I was certain Augustus had used me as a distraction, a way to refocus the Resistance and quell their dissidence. I spent most of my time with Elana and Max, who thankfully ignored whatever lies Augustus had manufactured. I was concerned their loyalty might place their positions in jeopardy. But they reassured me that, in time, Augustus would forgive me as would everyone else.
Forgive—that word burned like acid in my throat. Though Augustus' opinion was as useless to me as a single shoe, I had already learned the most important principle of my new home: So goes Augustus, so goes the Resistance.
Quin was avoiding me too, sort of. The day after Coit Tower, Max told me that Augustus had warned Quin about seeing me alone again. Augustus believed that Quin was changing and not for the better. I wondered what Quin believed. When we were in a room together, I often caught him looking at me. His gaze intense, but warm. He instantly pretended to be doing something else, avoiding my eyes. Max and Elana noticed too.
The three of us sat together in the dining hall. Quin several tables away, alone.
"Is it me or is Quin totally checking you out right now?" Max teased.
I blushed. As I slowly turned my head to look, Quin quickly got up from the table and left the room. Max and Elana laughed loudly.
"I'm glad you both find this so funny," I said sarcastically, smiling at them.
"It's just that Quin doesn't act this way . . . ever," Elana observed. I wondered if she was remembering her moment with sixteen-year-old Quin.
As she spoke, Markus walked up from behind her. His leg was wrapped in a thick bandage, still healing from his encounter with the Guardian Force.
"Hi, Elana," he said, glancing over his shoulder and winking at her. Just as she had that first day I met her, Elana tensed. She was as still and watchful as a small animal in the woods anticipating the first sign of danger.
"Hi, Markus," she said, not looking at him.
After Markus passed by, taking a seat at another table, Max spoke, "He's not going to bite you, Elana. At least, not yet." Chuckling to himself, he nudged her in the side with his elbow, and she playfully nudged him back, her uneasiness gone.
After lunch that afternoon, Elana asked if we could speak alone. We returned to my room.
"Has Quin told you about himself yet?" Elana asked.
"Partly," I said, unsure if that was even true. "A small part."
"Well, that's more than he shares with most. It's one of the things that Quin and I have in common. We hide our true selves, even from the people who care about us. That's actually why I wanted to talk to you."
"Okay," I said. I was deeply curious. In some ways, Elana was more guarded than Quin, relying on her outer beauty as a convenient and glittering diversion.
"I have a theory," she explained. "The Guardians chose me for a reason. The same reason they chose Max and Quin and all the others."
I nodded, and Elana continued.
"When I was a little girl, I was a free spirit. I was always dancing or skipping or hopping, never walking anywhere. I loved horses. I rode every day." Elana spoke slowly, as if she was sifting through stacks of old memories. "I was seven when my grandfather started touching me. At first, he told me it was a game. I loved games. While my grandmother was picking tomatoes, he told me to find him, and I did. He was in the bedroom. Afterward, he cried and told me I was so beautiful, the most beautiful little girl he'd ever seen. I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Like everybody gets a worst thing, you know, and that was mine."
Elana paused to look at me as if she was afraid of my reaction. I sensed she had told this story before, maybe more than once, to someone who didn't understand. Elana's eyes were brimming with tears, but she didn't allow them to fall.
"I was fourteen when it happened again," she said. "Everybody says it's not your fault, but when it keeps happening to you, you start to wonder. I was at a party, drunk. There was this boy I liked. He and his friends used their cell phones to video me doing stuff with them, sexual stuff. They posted it online. It was everywhere. After that, I thought there was no way I could live in this world, like I was an alien. Once I thought of jumping from the Golden Gate, just stepping right out into the fog and disappearing, but I couldn't. That's when I did this."
She pointed to a scar that traced its way like a tiny river across her right wrist. I hadn't noticed it before. I had always been drawn to her left arm, the one marked with the Guardian badge.
At that moment, I most wished I was my mother. If there was a right thing to say, she would have said it. Instead, I put my arm around Elana.
"Do Max and Quin know?"
"Sort of," she said. "They know about what happened when I was a little girl. It seems so long ago, like it happened to someone else. I couldn't tell anybody here about the other thing, but sometimes I feel like people know just by looking at me." Elana's shame was tangible. It marred her face like a corrosive acid seeping from her pores.
"Do you think the Guardian Force knew about what happened to you?" I was starting to reconsider my mother's theory that the government monitored and mined electronic data to keep a close watch over its citizens. I had always rolled my eyes, dismissing my mother, but Elana's story made me wonder.
Elana nodded. "When the Guardians recruited me, just like Max and Quin, they told me they had been watching me, that they knew things about me, that I was smart and brave. Of course, I wanted to believe them. But I think what they knew was that I wanted to escape more than anything else—not leave, like run away—but escape from everything inside me."
I sighed. "Emovere."
"Exactly."
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Second Time
After my conversation with Elana, my mind was on autopilot, replaying her story again and again. If Elana and I were correct, then the Guardian Force recruited only trauma survivors. They were especially vulnerable because Emovere suppressed fear and self-doubt in all its forms. If the recruits weren't rejected by the Guardian Force when they failed to meet its impossible standards, by the time they wanted out—if they wanted out—it was probably too late. Elana had told me that, like Quin, both she and Max had experienced intense withdrawals from Emovere.
I headed to the laboratory to talk to Carrie, hoping she could support my hunches with something tangible, something scientific. When I knocked, Carrie hesitated, a look of concern on her face. She approached the door with caution as if I was contaminated.
"I'm not supposed to let you in here," she said, her voice meek. "Augustus told us you put the Resistance in danger with your poor judgment."
"Do you believe him?"
"Augustus doesn't lie," she said matter-of-factly.
I was beginning to wonder what sort of strange voodoo Augustus practiced. It seemed that his scheming was completely invisible, cloaked in equal parts by his charm and confidence.
"I don't want to get in trouble," Carrie whispered. "I'm already a bit of an outcast here," she said, pointing to her Zenigenic badge.
I could see I wasn't going to win this argument. "I don't want you to get in trouble, Carrie. I just wanted to talk with you about a few things."
We stood at the door while I told her about my theory about the Guardian Force's recruiting strategy and what Quin had shared about Emovere's lasting side effects. She listened intently, nodding as I spoke.
Before I finished, Carrie interrupted. Her voice suddenly sounded stilted and rehearsed. "I'll have to talk to you later, Lex."
Behind me, a man in a lab coat approached. Flanking him were two Council members, Vera and Dr. Bell. Their eyes darted between me and Carrie, then exchanged a look of concern.
"Later," I agreed.
On my way back to my room, Max stopped me. "Lex!" he called out from the control booth, gesturing me over with his hand. "I was just about to look for you. I thought you should know that Quin is taking Artos for a walk in the tunnels . . . right now."
"Why would I want to know that?" Quin had expressed no interest in talking to me in thirty-six hours.
Max said nothing more, but grinned and handed me a flashlight.
I walked to the platform. Ensuring that I was alone, I jumped down and headed into the tunnel. I walked quickly. The anticipation of seeing Quin was like a steady drum pounding in my chest. After about fifteen minutes, I saw a flashlight up ahead flick on and off, on and off, and on. Quin.
Artos bounded toward me, his wagging tail a giveaway for his pure exuberance.
"Sit," Quin instructed him, and Artos reluctantly lowered himself to the ground. Quin was standing near the side of the tunnel, his flashlight illuminating part of his face. As I got closer, I could see his skin was smooth, freshly shaven. I took a position opposite him, near the other wall. He turned off his flashlight, leaving my single beam of light streaming between us.
"Hey," I said softly.
"Hey, yourself."
I smiled. It was impossible to be mad at him.
Right away, his words surprised me. "I had to see you," he said. "I'm sorry that I've been avoiding you. Augustus thinks that—"
I interrupted him. "I know what Augustus thinks, Quin. What do you think?"
Quin took a step toward me. "Remember the other thing that I put in my jacket? I want you to see it." He handed me a small computer tablet. I started to open it.
"No," he said panicked. "Don't look at it now."
"Okay. What is it?"
"It's everything. It's me . . . kind of like The Book of Quin." We both laughed. "It's my file from the Guardian Force. I stole it when I ran away." Quin paused. "I'll understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore after you read it."
"Quin," I said his name gently, but firmly. "That's not possible, no matter what it is." With one hand, I cradled the tablet close to my body, holding my flashlight in the other.
Quin took another step toward me and then another, until we were almost touching. He leaned toward me, and I breathed in summer and a hint of shaving cream. From the moment we had sat side by side on my bed on the night we met, some part of me knew that Quin would happen to me. He was unavoidable.
"I really want to kiss you right now," he whispered.
Little jolts of electricity pinged through me. "Are you asking my permission?"
"No." He smirked. "Just giving you fair warning."
I nodded, suddenly feeling nervous. "I might be really bad at it," I said. In my mind, I silently added . . . not like Elana and it's only my second kiss.
"Lex, that's not possible," he said mimicking my earlier words. Quin reached down the length of my arm, letting his fingers lightly graze my wrist. He clicked off my flashlight, leaving us in darkness. A current of anticipation hummed between us like a live wire. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand—his lips were soft and warm.
I dropped my flashlight. I don't think Quin even noticed. Reaching just underneath his shirt, I pulled him closer to me. His skin radiated heat. Quin sighed softly in my ear, his kisses becoming more insistent. Then, suddenly, he stopped, taking a step away from me. He turned his flashlight on and, for a moment, the light shined directly on me, a jarring spotlight.
"What's wrong? Why did you stop?" I asked, instantly feeling foolish.
Quin's face was clouded, a sign of a storm brewing within. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want to hurt you."
Thinking of the tablet I held in my arm, I reached for Quin's hand, taking it in mine. Even more than hurting me, I suspected he feared something else—being unlovable.
"We can go slow," I said, reassuring both of us.
We walked back together until we reached the part of the tunnel where the platform's lights started to cast a glow.
Quin spoke, "We should probably go separately from here. There's a Council meeting tonight."
"Right." I agreed, but nonetheless, his eagerness to please Augustus irritated me.
Before I left, Quin gently nudged me with his elbow and grinned. "You know, you were pretty bad at that. I think you're gonna need a lot more practice." He winked at me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Book of Quin
I practically ran back to my room. I couldn't wait to open the tablet that contained the whys, the clues to finally solve the mystery that was Quin. And he was a mystery to me, most of all to me. But as soon as I got back, I felt hesitant. What if Quin was right? What if he had done something unforgivable?
I closed my eyes. I could still smell Quin on my clothing . . . could still feel his need, so insistent. I remembered what Elana had told me about falling for Quin. Like Elana, I felt myself tumbling down in a delicious and dizzying spin that I didn't want to stop. Whatever it was, I could accept it. I opened The Book of Quin.
On the first screen in large block letters, it read:
Property of the United States Federal Government, Guardian Force
Unauthorized possession of this tablet is a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine or a minimum of seven years in a federal penitentiary.
"Great," I said aloud to myself—another felony. I scrolled to the next page. At the top, it was marked with the badge of the Guardian Force. It read:
Name: Quin Evan McAllister
Identification Code: Legacy 243
Date of Birth: 6/6/2021
Recruitment Date: 1/12/2038
Age: 16
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 180 lb.
Full Scale IQ: 130 (high average to superior range)
Skills Test Results
Pre-Protocol
Post-Protocol
Propensity to aggression
80th percentile, high average
95th percentile, superior
Risk-taking behavior
85th percentile, high average
99th percentile, superior
Problem-solving
95th percentile, superior
No change
Empathy
85th percentile, high average
60th percentile, average
Verbal communication
30th percentile, low
No change
Athleticism
98th percentile, superior
99th percentile, superior
Leadership
95th percentile, superior
No change
As I read, I couldn't help but smile. That was Quin alright. I could only assume "post-protocol" implied post-Emovere. Based on Quin's results, it seemed that whatever drugs he had been administered increased his aggression and his propensity to take risks, while decreasing his capacity to understand the feelings of others. I thought of my mother's early research with criminals. Individuals who met the criteria for psychopathy often demonstrated those same qualities. I wondered if Substance X had been part of Quin's protocol, but even more, I wondered if the effects were permanent.
The next few pages were highly technical and difficult to understand, but they appeared to describe the laboratory findings associated with Quin's response to Emovere. The top of each page was marked with Zenigenic's logo. I was relieved there was no mention of Agitor or any other emotion-altering substance.
Next was a response to Quin's requests for release from the Guardian Force.
Dear Mr. McAllister,
This is to confirm that you requested your release from the Guardian Force on 10/5/40, 11/2/40, and 12/30/40. Unfortunately, your requests have been denied based on the terms of your contract. This letter serves as a reminder of your agreement of confidentiality with regard to all matters related to your service in the Guardian Force. Any breach of this agreement is a federal offense and is punishable based on the terms of your contract. Additionally, we would like to remind you of your contractual obligation to consent to the administration of Emovere and any other substances we deem related to the success of your mission. We thank you for your service to your country and wish you continued success as a Guardian.
Sincerely,
General Jamison Ryker
I continued to the next page. There was a picture attached, marked with a time stamp—10/3/40—shortly before Quin's first request for release. It appeared to be taken at a riot on Market Street. As I examined the image more closely, I gasped. Standing on a car and holding a rifle was a wild-eyed Quin. His Guardian tattoo was covered with a red bandana, and he wore the mark of the Resistance on his shirt. He was barely recognizable. The attached document read:
On 10/3/40, Legacy 243 was given orders to carry out a confidential mission at a Resistance protest rally. Prior to the mission, Legacy 243 was administered 500 milligrams of Emovere. Legacy 243 completed his mission without error. He is to be commended for his service and advanced in the program.
As I scrolled the next few pages, I saw several similar notations, dated 10/31/40 and 11/29/40. Attached to those documents was an Internet article documenting a shooting death and a serious gunshot wound, both of which occurred at protest rallies in San Francisco. The article indicated that the shooter's identity was unknown, but he was believed to be a member of the Resistance.
I took a breath. Quin had hurt people—for the government in order to make it appear that the Resistance was dangerous. As Max had explained during our morbid sightsee, if the public feared the Resistance, it would confirm the need for the Guardian Force and help to promote the government's hidden agenda. Quin's demeanor that day—mercurial and reluctant—made complete sense now.
On the next page, I saw a picture of Quin, dated 6/1/35, at age thirteen. He wasn't smiling, and his eyes were troubled. Attached was his juvenile criminal history. He had many arrests for trespassing, shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, and loitering. His last arrest, at age fourteen, was for destruction of property. He had punched his fist through the wall at the Riverbend Home for Boys, causing several hundred dollars in damage and requiring stitches in his hand. I thought of the thin scar on Quin's knuckles, and then the one on Elana's wrist. No matter how hard they had tried to escape it, the past had left its mark.
Beginning at age seven, Quin had been in foster care—at least five homes, most of which he ran away from. In one of the reports, his foster mother noted, "Quin has two personalities. Sometimes he's a little boy, always wanting my attention. At other times, he's moody, like a powder keg, ready to explode at any minute."
Most of his foster parents agreed that Quin pushed them away before they ever had a chance to get to know him. That sounded familiar. When Quin turned sixteen, he escaped from Riverbend a final time, and his case was closed. I suspected he had run away to San Francisco.
Quin's school records were spotty, his grades all over the map. His report cards had a theme: Shows promise, has potential, but doesn't apply himself. Quin changed schools a lot, and he had a lot of absences. In the fifth grade, and again in the seventh, he was suspended for fighting. His eleventh-grade report card was his last.
Quin had been evaluated by a parade of psychologists. By the time he was fourteen, Quin was labeled with a plethora of disorders, including reactive attachment disorder, bipolar disorder, attention deficit disorder, and posttraumatic stress disorder. Most of the reports appeared to concur that Quin, the adolescent, had been irrevocably shaped when he was just a boy.
The next page was older, its type antiquated. It was a Los Angeles County police report dated 5/23/28. Quin was almost seven. It read:
On 5/23/28, Officer Rollins responded to the 700 block of Willow Court at 1800 hours, after receiving a 911 call with a report of a domestic disturbance. Upon arrival at the scene, Officer Rollins made contact with suspect George McAllister and his sons, Quin McAllister (age six) and Colton McAllister (age two). The minors were unharmed and were immediately placed in the care and custody of Los Angeles County Child Protective Services.
Officer Rollins observed that Mr. McAllister's clothing was covered in blood. Inside the home, officers located the body of the victim, Angela McAllister (wife of the suspect). A knife lying near the body also was secured as evidence. Upon observation, pending the coroner's report, Mrs. McAllister evidenced at least ten stab wounds to the upper torso and neck.
Mr. McAllister spontaneously reported to Officer Rollins that he stabbed his wife during an argument, after he returned home to discover her talking on the telephone to another man while his sons played unsupervised in the next room. Mr. McAllister also advised investigators that he is a participant in a government research trial, taking the prescription drug, Crim-X. His medication was seized into evidence. Mr. McAllister was placed under arrest and transported to the Los Angeles County Jail.
There was more in this section, but I couldn't read it. I didn't have to—I already knew. Quin's father was Inmate 243, making Quin Legacy 243. Max had been right. My mother would want to meet Quin. After all, he was part of her legacy too.
I wondered if any other Legacies had been recruited for the Guardian Force. It made sense. If the government wanted to find trauma victims, what better place to start than with the children of inmates who were at high risk for violence? The idea was sinister, twisted, but brilliant.
There was also a picture—a mug shot—of George McAllister. He was handsome. He had Quin's strong jaw, but his eyes were not Quin's. They were small and black, like marbles.
Next, was a Child Protective Services document confirming the termination of parental rights for George McAllister, followed by a certificate of adoption for Colton. Quin's brother had found a permanent family when he was just two. Quin had been left completely alone.
The final pages of the tablet were the hardest to read. They were written by my mother: confidential psychiatric evaluations of George McAllister both prior to and following his experimental release from prison, after he had fatally stabbed his wife. According to my mother, Mr. McAllister likely suffered from psychopathy, which may have made him less sensitive to Crim-X. Mr. McAllister had a long history of violence beginning at a young age. In the years leading up to the murder, he was arrested at least five times for domestic violence. In an interview with my mother, Mr. McAllister showed little remorse for the murder of his wife, telling her that Angela had always known how to push his buttons. After his conviction, he was sentenced to the Dellencourt Correctional Facility for high-risk offenders, serving life in prison with the possibility of parole. Now, Quin's father was almost forty.
The last folder on the tablet contained a picture: Quin, celebrating his fifth birthday. The image appeared to have been taken from his mother's social media page. Its caption read: Happy fifth birthday to the best little boy a mom could ask for. Under the type, Quin sat on his mother's lap, in front of a cake, a silly paper birthday hat on his head. His smile was mischievous, but innocent. He had his mother's eyes.
I closed The Book of Quin, concealing it beneath my mattress, and cried for a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gone
I didn't sleep much that night, not that I expected to. When exhaustion finally overtook me, I dreamed of Quin. I was walking down a long, dark tunnel. A little boy was sitting at the end, his back to me. I could hear him crying. I knew it was Quin. I had to get to him, to protect him. As I drew nearer, he grew older before my eyes. Now, he was my Quin. I touched his shoulder, and he turned around. His face was his own, but his eyes were black and beady, bird-like. He was covered in blood. I tried to scream, but I couldn't.
I was awake, but the dream lingered in my body, leaving me shaken. I looked at the clock. It was almost morning.
I heard a noise at the door.
"Quin?" I whispered. There was no response, but the sound of a persistent scratching.
"Quin?" I said again, louder this time. The scratching continued followed by a plaintive whimper.
I went to the door, opening it cautiously. It was Artos. Across his nose, there was a deep gash. His paws were bloody, and he was shaking and whining. I took him inside the room, wrapping him in a towel. He was inconsolable.
Leaving Artos inside, I softly padded down the hallway toward Quin and Max's room. I stopped when I heard voices.
"Nothing here," a man said, followed by radio static. His footsteps gradually faded to silence.
Moving quickly, I peered inside the small window at the top of the door. Max lay on his side, sleeping peacefully. Quin's bed was neatly made, empty. Panic came like a wave, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I had known from the moment that I saw Artos alone. Quin was gone.
******Author's note: Thanks for checking out Legacy. This is the last update I will post on fanfiction. The entire story of Lex and Quin is now available for purchase on , , and other retailers. Please visit or TheLegacybooks for more info on Legacy.