Frozen Fire
Chapter Three: Of Memories and Shadows
xXx
Jazz Fenton was waiting for them in the lab when they returned.
Her sea-green eyes were wide as she took in the unbridled fury on her parents' faces. She stood from her chair in a haste that sent it screeching behind her.
"What happened?" she demanded. "And where were you guys?"
"Vlad happened," Tucker muttered. He relayed to her what had transpired in Damon Gray's office, as well as what Maddie had found in the data from the drones.
Maddie was at her computer again, pouring through the data in an attempt to find something, anything, to support her hypothesis. She'd barely even acknowledged Jazz's presence, save for a fleeting, warm touch on her daughter's shoulder as she'd passed. The sounds of her frantic typing filled the room like rainfall.
Jazz muttered unsavory words under her breath in Vlad's regard before she turned to Sam, her cool fingers a light touch on Sam's arm. "And what about you, Sam? Are you okay? How do you feel about going back out there tomorrow?"
Sam sighed. Jazz had an uncanny way of knowing what was in your head before you even thought it yourself.
"I feel fine," Sam lied. "He won't cancel it, but I'm sure Damon will deploy a large squad of his army cadets to help us. We'll be okay." She hoped her following smile was convincing enough.
Jazz stared at Sam in that intense way that she often did. Her fingers played at the collar of her grey jumpsuit, absentmindedly tracing a few of the scars along her jawline.
"How was work today, Jazzypants?" Jack asked from his own workstation, an interruption that Sam was grateful for.
Jazz sighed. "People are struggling, Dad. But I'm optimistic with a few of my patients—they've really come a long way."
Schooled under her parents' instruction all through her childhood, Jazz was every bit the Fenton brain her parents were, so it was no surprise to anyone that she was utterly brilliant. With long, auburn hair that fell to her waist and the seaside eyes she shared with her mother, she was also beautiful, a feat that was not mired by the deep, garish scar tissue that distorted the left side of her face and neck.
The scars were the reminder of the lab accident that claimed her siblings all those years ago, a testament to her own survival. If the scars bothered her, however, no one was ever the wiser. Since the moment she'd graduated from the core program, she'd taken it upon herself to become the compound's only resident psychologist and dedicated her life to helping its broken people.
To say Sam admired her was an understatement.
Jack's answering grin to his daughter's words was an echo of Sam's own thoughts. He was positively beaming at her, and Sam couldn't say she was surprised to see it; Jazz was his pride and joy, after all.
Jazz shook her head at them. "Enough about me." Her eyes narrowed at Sam. "We need to figure out what we're going to do about you."
Sam shrugged, which made Jazz frown at her. "Nothing really can be done. I have orders." The last word was a sour lemon on her lips.
Tucker scoffed. "Orders," he echoed, green eyes rolling. "Since when do you care about orders."
Since my actions started affecting everyone else around me, Sam thought to herself, but let Tuck's words slide, because on the other hand, he was right. Damon was known for making questionable decisions in the past.
"Well, what do we know?" Jazz asked, her tone frank, steering them back to the business at hand. She twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers. "We know we potentially have a ghost masking its ectosignature, which makes it powerful, right?"
Sam and Tucker nodded.
"What ghosts do we know that could be powerful enough to do that?"
"What about that Wisconsin spook, the one with the fangs?" Jack offered.
"Doubtful, dear," Maddie said with a shake of her head. "That one has been gone for years now. We watched the Phantom destroy it, remember?"
Sam shuddered at the thought. Territorial disputes between ghosts were rare, but not unheard of, especially between extraordinarily powerful ones like those two were. Courtesy of the Fentons, Sam had seen the video evidence of it, the last footage they had of the Guys in White's facility in Wisconsin, just five hours west of Amity Park. The battle between the ghosts had left the facility in ruins.
"What about the Phantom?" Tucker proposed, though his face paled at his own suggestion. "If it could take down that one, I bet it's powerful enough."
"Also doubtful," Maddie said, "but not impossible, I suppose. We haven't seen it since the same event that claimed the Wisconsin ghost. For all we know, it perished as well."
"And a good riddance, too," Jack boomed.
That was how they spent their evening. Going through all the higher-level ghosts they knew of, comparing profiles, debating abilities and power levels, but none really standing out to them. By the time supper rolled around, they weren't any closer, and Sam had the beginnings of a headache throbbing at her temples.
She said good evening to the Fentons, and made to leave, when Maddie jumped from her computer and intercepted Sam at the door.
"Be safe out there, dear," she said, wrapping her arms around Sam.
"Yeah, Sam," Jack said, his voice more subdued than usual, almost soft. "You need to hurry up and get back here to try out the new gear." His large arms encompassed Sam and Maddie both, pulled them tight.
"Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Fenton," Sam said, and it was a struggle to swallow. The parental love she felt emanating from them was almost too much to bear, especially when she'd yearned to feel such a love from her own parents.
She bid the Fentons her farewell and was out the door of the lab, Tucker falling into step at her side.
"You good?" he asked, with a nudge of his elbow.
"Sure am." She couldn't quite keep the little edge of sarcasm out of her voice. "Just peachy."
"I know we all tend to think of worst-case scenarios here, but there is a chance that the drones could just be finally starting to malfunction too, you know." Tucker shrugged a single shoulder. "I mean, the tech out there is getting pretty old."
"Yeah." Her agreement was halfhearted, while Maddie's words were an echo in her head:
"I have been right about everything. If you and everyone else had listened before the start of this goddamn war, maybe we wouldn't be where we are now."
Sam raked a hand through her hair. "I'm just hungry, Tuck. And exhausted."
Tucker snorted. "I'll say! Those early morning patrol slots are cruel and unusual. On the bright side, though," he waggled his eyebrows at her, "because you have a mission scheduled tomorrow, you get extra food in your ration tonight."
"Lucky me," Sam deadpanned. "Extra slop."
xXx
Vlad Masters regarded the door impassively as it closed behind Jack and Madeline Fenton, as well as the Manson girl and her friend. He'd allowed his gaze to linger on Madeline's backside as she'd stormed beyond the threshold and continued to stare at the metal now separating him from his unrequited love.
"Do you have everything you need for tomorrow?" Damon asked, his graveled voice like claws against Vlad's ears.
Vlad pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the beaded sweat on his brow, in no hurry to answer the general's question. He let it hang in the air unanswered, long enough that he felt the air shift as Damon's impatience began to fester.
"Of course," Vlad said, not yet bothering to turn around. He pocketed his handkerchief and then decided to inspect his nails. "If all goes well, the main ectoreactor shall be functional by dinnertime tomorrow."
"And then how long should it take for the shields to function?"
Vlad sighed, bored with the direction of the conversation. He'd been caught by surprise earlier, when Damon had ordered his dear Madeline to hand her findings over to him for his inspection, but what he'd found had been just so interesting, though he would've been a fool to let Damon know that. "That would depend on the severity of the damage."
He'd worked hard to plant the little seedlings of ideas in Damon's mind, slowly convinced the surly man of the exact date and time that the impending mission must take place. And he was brimming with anticipation for what lay ahead come evening tomorrow, if only to test his theory.
Thanks to his sweet Madeline, he now knew he was indeed on the right track. Despite the years of soured affection between them since the incident all those years ago, she'd still managed to come through for him, though inadvertently, and had opened a realm of new possibilities for him and his work. An idea struck him then, and he smiled wickedly.
"Perhaps," Vlad said, letting his words slide as smooth as silk from his lips, "we should lend the sweepers some extra protection tomorrow."
"I thought you said the Fentons were wrong?" Damon demanded.
Vlad clicked his tongue as he finally turned to face Damon. "You asked me to corroborate it, and I could not," Vlad said, "but we will be engaging the main ectoreactor tomorrow, and who knows what will be drawn to such a surge of energy."
Vlad's face remained firm in his cool, indifferent mask as Damon studied him through a narrowed eye.
Finally, Damon said, "Very well."
xXx
It turned out that Sam was correct, the extra portion of her ration was indeed an unidentifiable, genetically engineered grain that had the texture of paste, in addition to the same brown blob they had for breakfast. Her lip curled a bit, because when she spooned it up to her mouth, a viscous, oily substance dripped all over the table and down the front of her shirt. She ate it anyway.
"Gross," she said, mostly to herself, as she spooned up another mouthful.
"I'll say," Tucker agreed. "That literally looks like vomit. Sam, you're eating vomit."
She shrugged. "It's not meant to taste good, I guess. Just needs to give us an excess of calories to help us not die when doing mission things."
"Damn," Tucker laughed a little, "that's harsh, dude. And suddenly I'm no longer jealous that you guys all get the extra food."
"Dinner tonight, and breakfast tomorrow," Sam said in a flat tone. "I'm literally so excited. Yay me."
"I bet," Tucker said. "Try not to sound too excited, though, or the resistance will take that away, too."
Sam snorted at that, dropping a spoonful of the stuff all over her lap in the process. She glared at her friend when he laughed at her, but they cleaned up the mess together. The remainder of their dinner was spent chatting amicably, jokes peppered in here and there to ease the worry beginning to gnaw at her insides.
Probably sensing her inner turmoil, his goodbye that evening was a simple one, which she was grateful for, because she wasn't sure if she could've handled it otherwise. Tuck knew her better than anyone.
"See ya in the morning, Sam," he said causally, knocking a fist with hers. "Get some sleep, would ya. Otherwise, the ghosts will start to think you're one of them."
She jokingly flipped him off in response over her shoulder as she turned, and walked in an unhurried pace through the winding corridors to where her living quarters were in the lower levels.
When she reached the door to the residence she shared with her mother, Sam paused, if only to steel herself with a deep, calming breath. With hesitant fingers, she punched the required code into the keypad, her features forced into neutrality as the locking mechanism released with a hiss.
The door opened to reveal a small room, with two twin beds shoved into opposite corners of the furthest wall. In the room's center, there was a round, rickety old table, two chairs, and a stained rug that was probably twice as old as she was. At the foot of each bed was a trunk for clothing and any other personal items that one could fit in it—not that anyone ever had much these days. A mismatched pair of end tables divided the beds. Embedded in a dim grey wall was a screen that, save for the rare announcements from Damon, remained dark and lifeless.
Sam's mother was perched at the wobbly table. She watched Sam enter with dull eyes, her mouth set firm in a permanent frown. "Hello, Sammykins," she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey, mom," Sam returned stiffly.
Her mother's eyes fell back to the stack of papers she had been flipping through. She said nothing more.
Sam peered over her shoulder and saw that her mom was reading an old article from Amity Park News. Nothing of substance, just one of the trivial advice columns. She wrinkled her nose at it but said nothing, leaving her mother in her silence.
She'd started collecting those old newspapers during her patrols at her mother's request. She'd scoffed initially when her mother had first asked, but eventually caved, because her mom didn't really ask for much these days. In fact, she barely spoke at all. She hardly engaged with anyone, including Sam, ever since the death of Sam's father.
Kicking off her shoes, Sam fell to her bed and watched her mother from behind. They were all thin these days, but Sam's mother was dangerously so. Her jumpsuit hung from her bones, and her hair, once a brilliant strawberry blonde, was now thinning and grey, tied into an unwashed knot at the nape of her neck. The skin on her long, bony fingers was almost translucent under the lights as she thumbed through the pages, so frequently, that Sam was sure that she wasn't even fully reading them.
"Anything good in there, mom?" Sam asked, her voice gentle, just as Jazz had instructed her to do.
Her mother said nothing. In fact, she gave no indication that she'd heard Sam at all.
"I'll try to find you another one tomorrow, if you want."
Still nothing.
Sam chewed on her bottom lip in thought as the reality of her mother's situation settled like lead in her chest, made her heart heavy and mournful. She would probably have to intervene soon, to get her mom to eat again, even if she had to force the food down her throat as she'd done before.
Pamela Manson had once been a force to be reckoned with. In her prime, she had been a beautiful, sharp-tongued aristocrat, with a family fortune and a strong marriage that solidified her position within the social circle of the Amity Park elites.
But then, the war happened. And then Sam's father died, during the attack that stole Amity from them and sent them underground. The starved woman that sat before Sam now, immersed in her stack of withering old newspapers, was a shell of the woman she had once been.
In fact, if it wasn't for the beat of her heart and the lack of an ectosignature, Sam would've thought her mom was a ghost. It was bad enough that she'd lost her father, but as she'd watched her slowly deteriorate in the years since, Sam had come to the sad realization that she'd lost her mom that day, too.
"Hey, mom," Sam coaxed in what she hoped was a soft enough voice, "is it okay if I turn out the lights? I gotta be up early to prep for tomorrow's mission."
Her mom's frail shoulders stiffened, but Sam saw her nod. She wordlessly stood from the table and staggered across the room to her own bed, the light glinting off the large jewel encrusted wedding ring that she kept on a cord around her neck, then lay down with her back towards Sam. Sam reached for the remote off an end table between their beds, and with the flick of a switch, she bathed the room in darkness.
Curling into herself under her thin blanket, Sam whispered, "Goodnight, mom."
And once again, the answer Sam received was a resounding silence.
xXx
Despite her evident exhaustion, Sam realized after a few hours of fitful tossing and turning that she would be unable to sleep that night.
It wasn't unusual for the blissful nothingness of sleep to evade her, especially in anticipation of a mission, or a patrol. In her daily life, she portrayed a cool facade for her peers and her superiors, but here in the dark, with just her own thoughts and the sounds of her mother's soft, sleeping cries, her nerves often got the best of her.
So did her memories.
She tried, she really did, not to think about that day that happened four or so years ago now. The day that Amity fell. The day she lost her father, and the day she was forced underground into this grey-walled hell that was supposed to be the resistance's salvation. She tried with all her might to stonewall those harrowing memories, to push them back into the deepest recesses of her mind.
But, like clawed fingers in her brain, the darkness behind her eyes raked them forward, drew them out from where she'd buried them.
There were no windows down here, this deep underground; no light to keep the memories away. She couldn't stop them as they flickered like an old film on the darkened ceiling tiles above her bed.
There is fire everywhere.
The undulating flames are irrepressible, fiery tongues that lick and arc madly. The flames are a bright, ectoplasmic green. People run screaming, many lay dead. Corpses burn, limp and smoking. The air is thick with calamity.
She tried to stop it, she did, but she is unable to remember how.
Ghosts are everywhere. The Fright Night is at her heels. Laughter echoes, dripping with venom, and causes her stomach to roil. Sirens and evacuation orders trill, loudly, amidst the chaos. Her head whips back and forth, weapon poised and blasting. Her terror is poison in her veins.
She finds her house.
Looking—looking for something—looking for someone. The ectoplasmic smoke burns her lungs.
She sees her father then.
She screams.
Sam could taste the smoke in her mouth when she shot up from her bed with a gasp. Frantic hands fumbled for the remote and flipped the lights back on, her heart hammering hard in her chest. Her mother didn't stir, not from the light, not when Sam left the room again with a muttered "screw this."
She walked with no destination. The compound was dark, mostly. The large, overhead fluorescent lights were turned down, but the dimmed, temporary lighting that was used at night illuminated the corridors just enough so that she could see. She wandered the halls, one foot in front of the other, and put as much distance as she could between herself and the nightmarish memories that tailed her.
At some point, she stumbled upon a darkened alcove within the cross section of two hallways. She sank to the ground there, her arms around her knees, and made every effort to calm her erratic breathing, fought hard to cease the trembles that wracked her body.
"It's just cold," she stammered into her knees, "that's all this is. I'm just cold. C'mon, Sam. Get yourself together."
The world spun as she fought with all her might to push her memories back—far, far into the deep, shadowy pit that lingered in her mind. It was where she buried all her old and terrible memories, and she feared the day that they spilled over, when she finally lost the strength to hold them back. Perhaps she should take up Jazz's offer of help. Maybe when she got back, after this mission . . .
She didn't know how long she stayed that way. Minutes? Hours? Days? She didn't care. She counted her shallow breaths until the rushing in her head stilled and the trembling stopped. Her lungs filled gratefully with air as she took in the first deep breath she'd had since leaving her room.
It was in those first precious moments of newfound composure that, amidst the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the faint beginnings of a strange, rhythmic sound pricked at her ears.
Fwack. Fwack. Fwack.
Sam's head shot up. She looked around madly into the dark.
Fwack. Fwack. Fwack.
The sound was getting . . . louder?
"Hello?" Sam asked the dark.
The sound stopped. Then, "Hello?" a feminine voice, thick with an accent, responded.
The sound continued again, then became louder as it closed in on Sam, who squinted into the darkness until she could just make out the telltale sign of an orange cane and the person who wielded it.
"Jesus, Paulina," Sam breathed. "You scared the shit out of me."
The girl kept approaching until she poked Sam with her cane. She stopped close enough that Sam could see just how ratty her old tennis shoes had become. "Sorry," she said, though Sam heard no guilt in her voice. "I am usually alone out here at this hour."
Sam eyed her strangely. She didn't know Paulina Sanchez well, though they were friendly enough, she supposed, in the way that acquaintances often were. Paulina was . . . Odd. Most of the other compound residents avoided her, a fact that kind of gave Paulina points in Sam's favor—which was a pretty shitty thing to admit, even if it was in her head.
"What are you doing out here, chica?" Paulina asked, her sightless green eyes narrowed.
"Existing," Sam deadpanned. She tapped the spot on the floor next to her. "You can join if you want."
After a beat of silence in which she considered Sam's offer, Paulina then felt for the wall and guided herself down until the two girls sat seated next each other on the cold, tiled floor.
Though Sam would never admit it, she couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of envy as she studied Paulina under the dim light. Even blind, with scars on her face, and her appearance disheveled from the inability to properly groom herself, the girl was still beautiful, in that effortless sort of way that Sam could never be.
She also couldn't help but feel a bit surprised in her own actions. She typically avoided people, save for a select few, as she preferred to keep her circle small. It was easier that way, both in terms of keeping those she cared about safe, and the fact that she had less to lose the next time all hell broke loose.
But there was something about the darkness and the fear of her own thoughts that made her welcome the company tonight.
"I heard there is a mission planned for tomorrow," Paulina hedged.
"There is," Sam said. "Just typical stuff, though. Gotta fix a couple drones."
"Well, I also heard the plan is to start one of the ectoreactors. The big one?"
Sam looked up sharply, only to be met with Paulina's conspirator's grin. Where had she heard that? Sam had only learned about it herself just this evening. The original plan was maintenance work, until Damon had informed them of the contrary in his office.
Paulina must've sensed her surprise because she chuckled softly. "You'd be amazed how much word gets around." She tapped a delicate finger on one of her crossed arms, her head cocked. "What I don't understand, though, is what is bothering you so much?"
"Nothing," Sam grumbled, toying with the hem of her sleeve. "I'm fine."
"I'm blind and even I can see that you are clearly not fine." Paulina rolled her eyes. "Is it the mission tomorrow?"
Sam shrugged. Then she realized that Paulina couldn't see shrugs, so she said, "I'm not sure, honestly. The Fentons think something bad might be out there."
Paulina hummed slightly in response. "By something bad, do you mean a ghost?"
"Yes," Sam said warily.
"Shouldn't you be used to ghosts by now?" Paulina arched one of her brows at Sam in question.
Sam thought about what to say for a moment. She wasn't sure how much she was even allowed to say. But then she decided she didn't care. "This one could be . . . powerful." She hated the way her voice wavered. "Like, really, powerful. If it's even out there."
Paulina's face seemed to flicker with an emotion Sam couldn't place. With her cane, she traced little invisible patterns against the floor.
"I walk these walls at night because it's quiet," Paulina said, changing the subject. "Everyone told me that when I was blinded, my hearing would take over"—she pointed at her left ear—"but I am deaf in this ear. From the explosions." She turned her head in Sam's direction, glazed eyes staring past her. "Nighttime is a bit easier. It's quiet. Less noise. I can get around better."
"I . . . see," Sam said, not sure what else to say. She knew what explosions Paulina referred to. They were the same ones from her own nightmares. "I'm sorry."
Paulina scoffed. "No, you're not. And I don't want your pity, anyway, chica. It's not your fault, it's no one's, it just is."
"Okay," Sam said awkwardly. "I'm just not sure what else to say."
A small smile was on Paulina's lips. She pointed to her eyes. "I was not a nice person, before this."
Sam laughed a little at that, remembering what Paulina had been like when they were much younger, vapid and cruel. "I remember."
"Truth was, I hated myself. So, I took it out on everyone else. And then I lost my sight." She tapped the end of her cane against the ground. "Being blind and partially deaf . . . you spend a lot of time alone with your own thoughts."
Sam squinted at her, unsure where she was going with this. "And?"
"And, chica, I learned—learned to love myself." Paulina's face was split into a dazzling smile. "And I know you're sitting there wondering why I'm telling you this, but I just want you to remember that not everything is always as it seems at first. Everyone is so concerned about staying alive that they forget how to live."
"Everyone also thinks that you're nuts, too, Paulina," Sam joked.
Paulina flicked her thick hair over her shoulder. "So let them. I don't care. I know who I am. Can they say the same?"
Sam chuckled at that, and she supposed she could like Paulina after all. Maybe they would've even been friends, had Sam been inclined to accept it.
"Do you know the rumors about me?" Paulina asked so suddenly that it caused Sam to balk.
Stunned into silence at such a loaded question, Sam could only stare down at her lap as she mulled over what to say. How was she supposed to respond to that? Sam did know of the rumors surrounding Paulina, though she generally tried to avoid the compound's whispered gossip.
Everyone thought Paulina was insane, that she'd lost her mind in the event that stole her eyesight and had become a bit of a pariah as a result. She was called a lot of names, too: Ghost Sympathizer, Ecto-whore, Ghost Loving Bitch—Sam blanched and swallowed hard.
"Uh," Sam said. "I may have heard something."
"A ghost saved my life," she said. "It sounds crazy, I know, but he did, and I remember." Then, in a voice that drifted much lower so that Sam had to strain herself to hear it, Paulina said, "I remember because he was the last thing I ever saw."
"A lot happened that night," Sam said, slowly, like she was talking to a child. "You can't really believe—"
"Don't patronize me, Goth Girl," Paulina growled at her. "Despite what those idiotas say, I'm not stupid, just blind."
Sam's brows shot up in surprise. "Why are you even telling me this? I'm basically a ghost hunter, remember? I can't just take my time to play good-ghost, bad-ghost. There's no time for that."
"I know, chica," Paulina sighed, as if Sam was the one being dense. "I just . . ." she paused, as if to find her words. "I just think there's more to them. I think there's a lot more we need to learn, that's not just how to destroy them. Don't you?"
Not really, no, Sam thought, but kept her thoughts to herself. All she cared about at this point was how to make it to the next day alive and in one piece. Anything else would be signing her own death sentence—which was something she was actively avoiding for the foreseeable future.
The silence between them was a slightly uncomfortable one. Both girls stewed in their own thoughts, each lost in their own terrible world.
Then Paulina sighed, exasperated. "I know most of the ghosts out there are horrible and evil, okay?" Her head turned in Sam's direction, her face set in a determined frown. "But one of them clearly isn't, because I'm still alive." A hand to her chest. "If there's one, maybe there's more? Maybe we're wrong about a lot of things."
Sam peered at her. Sure, Paulina was nuts, but Sam couldn't help but admire the ferocity in the way that Paulina unabashedly defended her own beliefs, even if they strayed far, far away from popular opinion, led her to be shunned by her peers. She was unapologetically herself in every way, everyone else be damned.
I remember when I used to be like that, Sam realized suddenly, and with that thought came the shame that burned her cheeks red. Who was she to judge Paulina for having an inkling of hope in this world? Sam had been like that once, fueled by the fire of her own convictions. Where had that Sam gone?
Perhaps she was a shell of her former self, too. Just like her mother. The realization was a sobering one—one that Sam didn't like at all.
"I'm sorry, Paulina," Sam said genuinely. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Paulina's lips twitched into a smirk. "You didn't. I know how I sound." There was a mischievous glint in her glazed eyes as she used her cane to pull herself off the ground. She offered Sam a hand and said, "Come on, Goth Girl, you have a world to save."
Sam snorted at the joke and took Paulina's offered hand.
xXx
The following morning came and went in a whirlwind of food she barely tasted, of tense conversations, burnt coffee, and a sort of buzzing excitement that had the compound residents thrumming with a liveliness that Sam was unused to seeing in them.
They stared at her as she passed, whispers traded amongst each other, and Sam knew that the rumor mill was indeed rife with the details of the mission that she was a part of today and had spread like wildfire since the previous evening. A few people she only vaguely recognized even clapped her and Tucker on their backs as they walked past them. She tried her best—though she definitely failed once or twice—to keep from glaring at them.
She supposed she couldn't blame them. It wasn't every day that the sweepers were sent to target the ectoreactors, after all. If they could somehow get them working again . . . chills swept down Sam's spine at the implication of that thought. She almost felt envious of their excitement, and maybe would have felt some of it herself, if it wasn't for the dread that coiled in her stomach as the Fentons' warning still rang, clear as day, in her mind.
She scrubbed the sleepless night she'd had from her eyes and groaned. "The mission isn't even slotted till later," she mumbled to Tucker, who matched her stride in step beside her. "I don't understand why he wanted us up so early."
Tucker's answering sulk was one of solidarity. "I'll say," he agreed. "I guess there's a lot of prep, and Damon is going to do a briefing, along with the Fentons and Vlad."
"Joy," Sam said in her usual deadpan, not exactly thrilled at the last part.
"This is pretty big," Tucker said, "I didn't realize Vlad was this close to getting the ectoreactors operational. I mean, I know he's an asshole and everything, but what if we got the shields back up?"
Sam bit her lip at the hope she could hear in her friend's voice. Damn him, hope was the last thing she needed right now. Hope was dangerous. She'd learned long ago that expecting shitty outcomes made things easier for when they inevitably happened, because whenever she'd dared to have hope, she'd be left to mourn that, too, in addition to whatever else she'd lost that day.
"Yeah, that would be cool," she said lamely.
Tucker looked at her then, really looked at her, and then stopped her with a gentle tug on her arm. They'd just rounded a corner, so Tuck pulled her aside, away from the bustling foot traffic and listening ears. "You okay?"
Sam nodded, unable to meet his worried gaze.
"Sam," he said, his eyes narrowed on her face, "did you get any sleep last night?"
She shrugged.
He sighed, and opened his mouth to reply, but Sam decided that she didn't need the pep talk she knew he would give her. She didn't want the reassurance, or to be softly reprimanded, she just needed this day over with, so she raised her hand as if to bat his words away.
"Listen, Tuck, I know what you're gonna say. I just . . ." She shook her head, unable to find the right words.
He smiled a soft, sad smile at her, because he knew her well enough to know what she was saying without saying it. "No worries, Sam," he said, "I'll be with you every step of the way out there and then I'll . . . see ya at dinner when you get back." And with that, he was gone, ambling towards his faction to start his own preparations.
Sam swallowed the lump that was in her throat as she watched him leave. What was wrong with her? Was it the fear of death and danger that loomed several hours in her future? Sam was used to that, had lived with it her entire life. But the ominous, wriggling feeling that she could feel in her bones wouldn't leave her be, no matter how much she tried to resist it, like every cell in her body was screaming in warning. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but Sam tried her best to ignore it as she threw back her shoulders and continued forward.
The training hall was a swell of chaos, and Sam could only stare in surprise as she strode inside, mouth agape. Yesterday she'd been told it would just be a couple small squads dispatched into the city, but now, large groups of people, cadets and sweepers alike, dashed about in a flurry of activity, squad leaders shouting orders amidst the roar of voices. Sam weaved through them until she reached the locker area.
When she entered, however, her quick steps slowed to a halt as she realized the owner of the locker adjacent to her own was present, with her back facing Sam, and the door opened so wide that it blocked access to Sam's locker.
Long ringlet curls flung wildly as Valerie Gray shimmied into a red jumpsuit that complemented her dark skin. Unlike Sam's, and many of the other sweepers, Valerie's suit, armor, nor even her gear or weaponry, were designed by the Fentons, but rather Vlad Masters himself. She was pulling her weapons from her locker and holstering them when she finally noticed Sam watching her.
Brows lowered, she nudged her locker door over some so Sam could access her own. "Manson," she acknowledged tersely, her voice cold.
"Gray," Sam responded with a similar inflection.
They outfitted themselves in an edged silence, so sharp, that even the ectoranium tipped knife that Sam sheathed at her hip seemed dull in comparison. Sam had to bite her cheek to keep from snapping when Valerie's elbow knocked her toolbelt off the bench seat in front of their lockers, spilling its contents.
"Oops," Valerie said, sweetly unapologetic, as she finished up the buckles on her boots.
Sam glared at her, but otherwise said nothing, though she tasted blood.
Things hadn't always been this way between them. They were both sweepers, chosen from the same year group, and at one point had been close friends—best friends, even. But while Sam had been mentored by Dale Barbarra, Valerie had worked exclusively under Vlad Masters, chosen by him specifically as his prodigy, and then she'd changed, inexplicably.
Sam hadn't been shy to express her distaste of Vlad over the years, while Valerie borderline worshiped him, and it was with that conflict that their friendship deteriorated into its current state of acid and rivalry. Valerie thought Sam was jealous, but Sam just simply reviled the man. The more she'd tried to warn her friend, the greater the rift that had formed between them became.
Sam was a good sweeper and was often touted as one of the best. But Valerie—Sam eyed the wild-haired girl from her peripheral—she truly was, as Vlad had said, a league of her own. Because while Sam was smart, resourceful, and had exceptional aim in the field, Valerie was on a whole other level, and was utterly ruthless. She could take down entire mobs of ghouls and spooks almost single-handedly, as if every ghost in existence was her own personal vendetta.
"Hey, Manson," Valerie said, now completely outfitted in her gear, fingers drumming on her holstered weapon, as if in impatience.
Sam merely arched a brow at her former friend.
Valerie stalked in her direction, knocking her shoulder into Sam's as she passed. "Make sure you stay out of my way, got it?"
"Same goes to you," Sam muttered back. She slammed the door to her own locker shut so hard that it stayed put on the first try.
Valerie paused before the short, narrow hallway that led into training hall, and said over her shoulder in a voice that held the slightest echo of affection, "Make sure you stay alive out there, okay?" And then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
Sam stared after her in surprise but didn't have long to ruminate over Valerie's parting words, because Damon Gray's voice boomed throughout the compound from the overhead comms.
"ALL PERSONNEL SCHEDULED FOR TODAY'S MISSION, REPORT TO THE COMMON HALL FOR BRIEFING."
xXx
Sam's eyes were on Damon Gray as he stood, statuesque, atop the mezzanine of the great hall, while everyone gathered, crammed in around her so tight, that Sam wasn't sure where she ended and someone else began. She couldn't help but wonder how a room could be both too large and too small at the same time. They were organized by trade, with the sweepers on the east side of the room, and the cadets on west, with the "techies," as Barbarra so warmly referred to them as, somewhere in the center. Sam could tell by the lighting and the cameras positioned about the room that this briefing was a televised one, and would no doubt be playing in every one of the resident quarters tonight.
Sam wondered then if her mom would be watching, wondered if she would even care.
Tucker caught her eye from his spot on the outer edge of his group and gave her a wide grin accented by a cheerful thumbs up. She tried her best to return his enthusiasm, but the weak smile she gave him only prompted his brow to furrow in concern. She turned away from him, her eyes settling once again on Damon.
The excited murmurings around her mingled into a dull roar that made her ears ring, so she was grateful once the room fell into a collective silence when Damon raised a single hand. Behind him, Vlad Masters, followed by Jack and Maddie Fenton, climbed the steps to the mezzanine and took their places on either side of him.
"Welcome, brothers and sisters," he boomed, "I thank you for coming here tonight, and to everyone watching from your quarters, I thank you as well." He looked pointedly at one of the cameras for a moment, before returning to face the crowd. "As I'm sure you've heard, we intend to accomplish a great feat tonight, and that is to reinstate the main ectoreactor, while ghost activity in the city is at the lowest it has been in years."
A ripple of hoots and howls and whoops went through the crowd, fists thrown into the air, before everyone quieted again, waiting with bated breaths for their leader to continue. Sam's eyes were on the Fentons, and though she had to squint to see their faces from such a distance, she could see that both of their expressions were schooled into neutrality. But Sam knew them well enough, could see it in the way they stood, stiff and blank, that they were pissed.
Damon continued. "You may wonder why, then, I am sending out so many of you when activity is low, and that is because two of our resident scientists," he gestured to Jack and Maddie, "believe there to be a powerful ghost haunting the area, though our scanners have not confirmed it." His metal hand gestured towards the crowd, to their numbers. "We will take no chances tonight."
Once again, the crowd bellowed, and Sam's eyes widened. She was stunned that Damon had listened to them and heeded their warning after all, even if it wasn't the result that Jack and Maddie had originally intended.
Sam studied them again, and she was surprised to see the incensed, sidelong glance that her two favorite scientists shared between themselves, and her brow furrowed. What was going on?
Vlad stepped forward then. "As you all know, the main ectoreactor is our target. I've taken the liberty of preparing a detailed plan that will be sent to each of you." As if on cue, a symphony of beeps resonated as everyone received the data, including Sam, to the little computerized device she had on her forearm. She scrolled through it as Vlad continued. "I cannot stress the importance of this task," he said, his face set in its usual haughtiness. "The first step in raising our shields is fixing the ectoreactor, as it is the one that contains the fusion core, which is the source of our power."
The crowd roared again, and Sam felt her stomach flip at Vlad's words. The compound had been operating off its reserved power for years now. If they succeeded in getting the fusion cells operational . . . Flashes of wonderful things, like hot showers and tossed green salads, flitted across her mind, and she couldn't quell the damnable bout of excitement that began welling inside of her.
She imagined then, a world where she slept in a windowed room shrouded by stars, of green grass at her feet, of trees and flowers and dirt—a world where she wasn't perpetually encapsulated by grey walls and resignation. Maybe the drones were, as Tucker had said, just old and broken and had given up, maybe . . .
"Whatta bunch of bull," someone said beside her, and it was a voice that Sam knew very well.
She turned her head to look at her mentor and friend, Dale Barbarra. She hadn't realized he'd been standing there. "What do you mean?"
He scoffed. She was surprised to see an unlit cigarette still lolling in the corner of his mouth and idly wondered if it was the same one from yesterday. "That bastard is a snake in a house of mice," he muttered cryptically. "Wouldn't trust him to wash my shorts."
Sam let his words settle as she mulled them over. She looked back to the Fentons again, saw the way they not so subtly glared at Vlad, and hardly registered the remainder of the briefing. She knew that Damon was speaking again, pandering to the crowd and to the cameras, but she couldn't discern anything he said. She didn't care. As quickly as she'd felt it, the little flickering flamelight of hope she'd let burn died out, smothered by grim reality.
Damon's speech must've come to an end, and the room was an eruption of applause and cheers. But Sam didn't cheer, and Barbarra didn't either.
xXx
Sam stood at attention as Barbarra strode back and forth, his expression calculative, as he appraised their assembled squad. Sam and Barbarra were the only two sweepers present, with the rest of their company being the men issued to them by Damon for backup and extra firepower should they need it. They were familiar faces though, as they'd often worked together on missions throughout the years, and Sam knew and trusted all of them.
She saw a cadet, Dash Baxter, shift nervously, and Kwan Kimura placed a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. Dash and Kwan were from Sam's year, and both were strong and athletic, so it was no surprise when Damon had whisked them away the moment they'd graduated from the core program.
The other two men present were old and grizzled, hardened by the years of war, Willie Shoemaker and Dick Belair.
The six of them stood together, forming a small circle, as they waited for their turn to ride the elevator to the surface. Around them, crowds of other sweepers and cadets were sectioned off into their assembled units. From the corner of her eye, Sam caught a flash of red as Valerie Gray sauntered to her own troop.
The tension within their small group was nearly palpable. The older guys—Barbara, Shoemaker, and Belair—seemed to revel in it, grinning at the kids' unease. Willie Shoemaker, a burly man with a scraggly beard was the first to break the silence. "I'm thinkin' the fresh meat looks a li'le scared, eh, Dick?" the man said in a gravelly voice that was just as rough as the rest of him.
Dick Belair laughed boisterously and elbowed Shoemaker in the gut. "I think you're right," Belair said. Where Shoemaker was big, Belair was small. He was the oldest of the three and miniscule in comparison to the other men, but still exceptionally lethal for his sixty-seven years. He coughed out a laugh before turning to Barbara. "You think most of 'em will make it out today?" Sam tried not to laugh as Dash visibly straightened, his eyes widened in obvious alarm.
Barbara grinned at Belair and Shoemaker, but otherwise did not respond to them. He instead directed his attention towards the youngest three of their party. "Ignore them. You all will make it out alive." He paused, long enough to meet the eyes of each of them, lingering on Sam's. "But only if you listen to me, follow your orders, and remember your training."
Though they'd be servicing drones first, Sam knew that the main ectoreactor was no doubt the source of the apprehension. Amity had several reactors, but the largest of them all, the one with the fusion core, was in the wastelands east of Amity, just outside the city's borders. The city was quiet, sure, but the wastelands would no doubt be teeming with ghosts.
Sam started as their party was called for their turn to enter the elevator shaft.
"Man," Dash breathed, as the elevator wobbled alarmingly with their combined weight, "I sure won't miss this piece of shit when they get the fusion power going again."
"Heh, yeah," Kwan replied, bracing himself against one of the handrails. "The big one is way better."
Sam had to agree with them. They hadn't been able to use the larger elevator since evacuating Amity as it used too much power, so they'd been relegated to the rickety mechanical one that often left its occupants waging war on keeping their meals in their stomachs.
"Pussies," Dick Belair chuckled, though Sam could see that even his face was pale.
They emerged from the shaft and followed Barbarra as he led them through the maze of Amity's military base. Sam's pulse began to quicken, and she could feel the thunder in her chest as they neared the large doors that would lead them to the outside, ghost-riddled world.
"You there, Tuck?" she asked into her comm.
Tucker's response was instant. "You bet!" The line crackled a bit as he fell silent, as if to find the right words. "Please be careful out there . . . the Fentons are pretty spooked."
Sam grimaced as Tucker's words made her group stiffen and look at her.
"Foley," Barbarra drawled, low and angry, into his own comm, "yer scarin' the kiddies."
"My bad, everybody," Tucker groaned. "Shutting up now."
Shaking his head, Barbarra paused to unholster his weapon, while Sam and the rest of the squad promptly followed suit. He nodded to one of the masked guards, who activated the door's locking mechanism from a control panel, and then the door was groaning, loudly, as it yawned wide to reveal a hazy green sky.
Swam swallowed. She pushed all her worries, her fear, her memories, deep into that pit in her mind. She forced away her conversation with Paulina, thoughts of smarmy Vlad Masters, her mother, and even the Fentons' ominous warning until all that was left was Sam the sweeper, who was good and what she did and who had a job that needed to be done. She could do this.
"Playtime's over, kiddies!" Barbarra said, and as a group they stepped through the threshold and into the world beyond.
A/N: Things are finally heating up! I struggled with the last half of this chapter, not going to lie. I don't really like writing groups of people, haha. I'm excited for the next few chapters!
As always, thanks so much to everyone who has taken the time to read, favorite, and review this ol' story of mine. Y'all are the real heroes, inspiring silly people like me to keep putting words onto screens.
Stay Spooky!
-Roar