I’m suddenly a big fan of the Warner groupies.
On our way back to my tent, I told only a couple of people I spotted on the path that Warner was hungry—but still not feeling well enough to join everyone in the dining hall—and they’ve been delivering packages of food to my room ever since. The problem is, all this kindness comes with a price. Six different girls (and two guys) have shown up so far, each one of them expecting payment for their generosity in the form of a conversation with Warner, which—obviously— never happens. But they usually settle for a good long look at him.
It’s weird.
I mean, even I know, objectively, that Warner’s not disgusting to look at, but this whole production of unabashed flirtation is really starting to feel weird. I’m not used to being in an environment where people openly admit to liking anything about Warner. Back at Omega Point—and even on base in Sector 45—everyone seemed to agree that he was a monster. No one denied their fear or disgust long enough to treat him like the kind of guy at whom they might bat their eyelashes.
But what’s funny is: I’m the only one getting irritated.
Every time the doorbell rings I’m like, this is it, this is the time Warner is finally going to lose his mind and shoot someone, but he never even seems to notice. Of all the things that piss him off, gawking men and women don’t appear to be on the list.
“So is this, like, normal for you, or what?” I’m still arranging food on plates in the little dining area of my room. Warner is standing stiffly in a random spot by the window. He chose that random spot when we walked in and he’s just been standing there, staring at nothing, ever since.
“Is what normal for me?”
“All these people,” I say, gesturing at the door. “Coming in here pretending they’re not imagining you without your clothes on. Is that just, like, a normal day for you?”
“I think you’re forgetting,” he says quietly, “that I’ve been able to sense emotions for most of my life.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So this is just a normal day for you.”
He sighs. Stares out the window again.
“You’re not even going to pretend it’s not true?” I rip open a foil container. More potatoes. “You won’t even pretend you don’t know that the entire world finds you attractive?”
“Was that a confession?” “You wish, dickhead.”
“I find it boring,” Warner says. “Besides, if I paid attention to every single person who found me attractive I’d never have time for anything else.”
I nearly drop the potatoes.
I wait for him to crack a smile, to tell me he’s joking, and when he doesn’t, I shake my head, stunned.
“Wow,” I say. “Your humility is a fucking inspiration.” He shrugs.
“Hey,” I say, “speaking of things that disgust me— Do you maybe want to, like, wash a little bit of the blood off your face before we eat?”
Warner glares at me in response.
I hold up my hands. “Okay. Cool. That’s fine.” I point at him. “Actually, I heard that blood’s good for you. You know—organic. Antioxidants and shit. Very popular with vampires.”
“Are you able to hear the things you say out loud? Do you not realize how perfectly idiotic you sound?”
I roll my eyes. “All right, beauty queen, food’s ready.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Does it never occur to you to think things through before you speak? Does it never occur to you to cease speaking altogether? If it doesn’t, it should.”
“Come on, asswipe. Sit down.”
Reluctantly, Warner makes his way over. He sits down and stares, blankly, at the meal in front of him.
I give him a few seconds of this before I say—
“Do you still remember how to do this? Or did you need me to feed you?” I stab a piece of tofu and point it in his direction. “Say ah. The tofu choo choo is coming.”
“One more joke, Kishimoto, and I will remove your spine.”
“You’re right.” I put down the fork. “I get it. I’m cranky when I’m hungry, too.”
He looks up sharply.
“That wasn’t a joke!” I say. “I’m being serious.”
Warner sighs. Picks up his utensils. Looks longingly at the door. I don’t push my luck.
I keep my face on my food—I’m genuinely excited to be getting a second lunch—and wait until he takes several bites before I go for the jugular.
“So,” I finally say. “You proposed, huh?”
Warner stops chewing and looks up. He strikes me, suddenly, as a young guy. Aside from the obvious need for a shower and a change of clothes, he looks like he’s finally beginning to shed the tiniest, tiniest bit of tension. And I can tell by the way he’s holding his knife and fork now— with a little more gusto—that I was right.
He was hungry.
I wonder what he would’ve done if I hadn’t dragged him in here and sat him down. Forced him to eat.
Would he have just driven himself into the ground? Accidentally died of hunger on his way to save Juliette?
He seems to have no real care for his physical self. No care for his own needs. It strikes me, suddenly, as bizarre. And concerning.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I proposed.”
I’m seized by a knee-jerk reaction to tease him—to suggest that his bad mood makes sense now, that she probably turned him down—but even I know better than that. Whatever is happening in Warner’s head right now is dark. Serious. And I need to handle this part of the conversation with care.
So I tread carefully. “I’m guessing she said yes.” Warner doesn’t meet my eyes.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. It’s all beginning to make sense now.
In the early days after Castle took me in, my guard was up so high I couldn’t even see over the top of it. I trusted no one. I believed nothing. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I let anger rock me to sleep
at night because being angry was far less scary than having faith in people
— or in the future.
I kept waiting for things to fall apart.
I was so sure this happiness and safety wouldn’t last, that Castle would turn me out, or that he’d turn out to be a piece of shit. Abusive. Some kind of monster.
I couldn’t relax.
It took me years before I truly believed that I had a family. It took me years to accept, without hesitation, that Castle really loved me, or that good things could last. That I could be happy again without fear of repercussion.
That’s why losing Omega Point was so cataclysmic.
It was the amalgamation of nearly all my fears. So many people I loved had been wiped out overnight. My home. My family. My refuge. And the devastation had taken Castle, too. Castle, who’d been my rock and my role model; in the aftermath, he was a ghost. Unrecognizable. I didn’t know how anything would shake out after that. I didn’t know how we’d survive. Didn’t know where we’d go.
It was Juliette who pulled us through.
Those were the days when she and I got really close. That was when I realized I could not only trust her and open up to her, but that I could depend on her. I never knew just how strong she was until I saw her take charge, rising up and rallying us all when we were at our lowest, when even Castle was too broken too stand.
J made magic out of tragedy.
She found us safety and hope. Unified us with Sector 45— with Warner and Delalieu—even in the face of opposition, at the risk of losing Adam. She didn’t sit around waiting for Castle to take the reins like the rest of us did; there was no time for that. Instead, she dove right into the middle of hell, completely inexperienced and unprepared, because she was determined to save us. And to sacrifice herself in the process, if that was the cost. If it weren’t for her—if it weren’t for what she did, for all of us—I don’t know where we’d be.
She saved our lives.
She saved my life, that’s for sure. Reached out a hand in the darkness.
Pulled me out.
But none of it would’ve hurt as much if I’d lost Omega Point during my early years there. It wouldn’t have taken me so long to recover, and I
wouldn’t have needed so much help to get through the pain. It hurt like that because I’d finally let my guard down. I’d finally allowed myself to believe that things were going to be okay. I’d begun to hope. To dream.
To relax.
I’d finally walked away from my own pessimism, and the moment I did, life stuck a knife in my back.
It’s easy, during those moments, to throw in the towel. To shrug off humanity. To tell yourself that you tried to be happy, and look what happened: more pain. Worse pain. Betrayed by the world. You realize then that anger is safer than kindness, that isolation is safer than community. You shut everything out. Everyone. But some days, no matter what you do, the pain gets so bad you’d bury yourself alive just to make it stop.
I would know. I’ve been there.
And I’m looking at Warner right now and I see the same deadness behind his eyes. The torture that chases hope. That specific flavor of self-hatred experienced only after being dealt a tragic blow in response to optimism.
I’m looking at him and I’m remembering the look on his face when he blew out his birthday candles. I’m remembering him and J afterward, cuddled up in the corner of the dining tent. I’m remembering how angry he was when I showed up at their room at the asscrack of dawn, determined to drag J out of bed on the morning of his birthday.
I’m thinking—
“Fuck.” I throw down my fork. The plastic hits the foil plate with a surprising thud. “You two were engaged?”
Warner is staring at his food. He seems calm, but when he says, “Yes,” the word is a whisper so sad it drags a knife through my heart.
I shake my head. “I’m so sorry, man. I really am. You have no idea.”
Warner’s eyes flick up in surprise, but only for a moment. Eventually, he stabs a piece of broccoli. Stares at it. “This is disgusting,” he says.
Which I realize is code for Thank you. “Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
Which is code for No worries, bro. I’m here for you.
Warner sighs. He puts down his utensils. Stares out the window. I can tell he’s about to say something when, abruptly, the doorbell rings.
I swear under my breath.
I shove away from the table to answer the door, but this time, I only open it a crack. A girl about my age peers back at me, standing there with a
tinfoil package in her arms.
She smiles.
I open the door a bit more.
“I brought this for Warner,” she says, stage-whispering. “I heard he was hungry.” Her smile is so big you could probably see it from Mars. I have to make a real effort not to roll my eyes.
“Thanks. I’ll take th—”
“Oh,” she says, jerking the package out of reach. “I thought I could deliver it to him personally. You know, just to be sure it’s being delivered to the right person.” She beams.
This time, I actually roll my eyes.
Reluctantly, I pull open the door, stepping aside to let her enter. I turn to tell Warner that another member of his fan club is here to take a long look at his green eyes, but in the second it takes me to move, I hear her scream. The container of food crashes to the ground, spaghetti noodles and red sauce spilling everywhere.
I spin around, stunned.
Warner has the girl pinned to the wall, his hand around her throat. “Who sent you here?” he says.
She struggles to break free, her feet kicking hard against the wall, her cries choked and desperate.
My head is spinning.
I blink and Warner’s got her on the floor, on her knees. His boot is planted in the middle of her back, both of her arms bent backward, locked in his grip. He twists. She cries out.
“Who sent you here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, gasping for breath. My heart is pounding like crazy.
I have no idea what the hell just happened, but I know better than to ask questions. I remove the Glock tucked inside my waistband and aim it in her direction. And then, just as I’m beginning to wrap my head around the fact that this is an ambush—and likely from someone here, from inside the Sanctuary—I notice the food begin to move.
Three massive scorpions begin to scuttle out from underneath the noodles, and the sight is so disturbing I nearly throw up and pass out at the same time. I’ve never seen scorpions in real life.
Breaking news: they’re horrifying.
I thought I wasn’t afraid of spiders, but this is like if spiders were on crack, like if spiders were very, very large and kind of see-through and wore armor and had huge, venomous stingers on one end just primed and ready to murder you. The creatures make a sharp turn, and all three of them head straight for Warner.
I let out a panicked gasp of breath. “Uh, bro—not to, um, freak you out or anything, but there are, like, three scorpions headed straight toward y—”
Suddenly, the scorpions freeze in place.
Warner drops the girl’s arms and she scrambles away so fast her back slams against the wall. Warner stares at the scorpions. The girl stares, too.
The two of them are having a battle of wills, I realize, and it’s easy for me to figure out who’s going to win. So when the scorpions begin to move again—this time, toward her—I try not to pump my fist in the air.
The girl jumps to her feet, her eyes wild. “Who sent you?” Warner asks again.
She’s breathing hard now, still staring at the scorpions as she backs farther into a corner. They’re climbing up her shoes now.
“Who?” Warner demands.
“Your father sent me,” she says breathlessly. Shins. Knees. Scorpions on her knees. Oh my God, scorpions on her knees. “Anderson sent me here, okay? Call them off !”
“Liar.”
“It was him, I swear!”
“You were sent here by a fool,” Warner says, “if you were led to believe you could lie to me repeatedly without repercussion. And you are yourself a fool if you believe I will be anything close to merciful.”
The creatures are moving up her torso now. Climbing up her chest. She gasps. Locks eyes with him.
“I see,” he says, tilting his head at her. “Someone lied to you.” Her eyes widen.
“You were misled,” he says, holding her gaze. “I am not kind. I am not forgiving. I do not care about your life.”
As he speaks, the scorpions creep farther up her body. They’re sitting near her collarbone now, just waiting, venomous stingers hovering below her face. And then, slowly, the scorpions’ stingers begin curving toward the soft skin at her throat.
“Call them off !” she cries.
“This is your last chance,” Warner says. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
She’s breathing so hard now that her chest heaves, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes dart around the room in a wild panic. The scorpions’ stingers press closer to her throat. She flattens against the wall, a broken gasp escaping her lips.
“Tragic,” Warner says.
She moves fast. Lightning fast. Pulls a gun from somewhere inside her shirt and aims it in Warner’s direction and I don’t even think, I just react.
I shoot.
The sound echoes, expands—it seems violently loud—but it’s a perfect shot. A clean hole through the neck. The girl goes comically still and then slumps, slowly, to the ground.
Blood and scorpions pool around our feet. The body of a dead girl is splayed on my floor, just inches from the bed I woke up in, her limbs bent at awkward angles.
The scene is surreal.
I look up. Warner and I lock eyes.
“I’m coming with you to get J,” I say. “End of discussion.”
Warner glances from me to the dead body, and then back again. “Fine,” he says, and sighs.
