Chapter 4
SILAS
My phone buzzes as I take down Miss O’Deal’s scrumptious chicken-fried steak with her homemade ghost-pepper sauce.
Hedy: We’re starting Mav’s initiation in ten in the Shed.
I smile, even as my hands tighten into fists.
Me: I’ll be there.
I’m glad for the physical exertion. This food is so good, I need to hit something.
I wonder, not for the first time, if sex will be as good as violence.
Or if, like a good plate of food or a super cute baby animal, it’ll just amp up my need to rip someone’s head off.
Not that I’ve ever done that. I recently saw an old report where Edison did it once to protect Hedy, and I adjusted my workout routine accordingly.
If sex is as good as it looks in porn, I’ll either have a new way to offload this feeling in my hands, or I’ll need to line up a couple of people to kill after sex.
Not sure how the wires of my pleasure center got crossed with my kill center.
Probably more of Blake’s genetic fuckery.
Just another off-putting truth I’ve learned to accept about myself.
Secretly, my hottest dream involves Oakley fucking me while I choke someone out. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be into that. To be clear, I’ve never fantasized about killing or harming the person I was fucking. Not that I’ve ever fucked anyone.
I did have a female friend in one of my online high school classes. We were supposed to meet to have sex before she went off to college so we could both stop being virgins. But she stopped communicating with me before we could consummate our deal.
I thought she’d been kidnapped, but my concerned texts, letters, and voicemails, along with traveling to New York to check out her apartment, were deemed obsessive. I tried to explain that I was just making sure she hadn’t been murdered, but that also got misconstrued.
I…yeah. I still don’t understand what went wrong there. Rami tried to explain it to me once, but that led down a rabbit hole to the incomprehensible horror show of a Star Trek reboot and my ongoing campaign to have Spock recast by someone who at least understood Vulcan.
What was I talking about?
Oh. Right. Murder-during-sex fantasies. Then again, Oak’s the only person I’ve ever fantasized about.
After the friend-not-a-girlfriend incident, I assumed I’d die a virgin. That always felt like a neutral fact. Masturbation is a perfunctory, if pleasant, task in the same vein as keeping my nails trimmed and my face clean-shaven.
These feelings I’ve developed for Oakley over the last year, however, give me a sensation under my skin that I can’t quite shake.
Unfortunately, there’s not enough masturbation in the world to imitate what I assume will be the immense satisfaction of being squished by a three-hundred-pound man as he fucks me into the mattress.
Believe me, I’ve tried. Even with a pile of weighted blankets, it was a bust.
As for the porn, I don’t watch it to get off. I mean, I’d get off if it was Oakley porn, but…no. I’ve been told porn isn’t super realistic, but I still find it instructional from a mechanics standpoint.
For instance, I definitely, definitely want Oakley to top me. Dominate me, if he’d be willing. I’d fuck him, too, if he likes receiving. But after working my way through a variety of dildos, I can confidently say I’m a basic bottom bitch.
At least according to the one guy I follow.
It’s Mama and Papa Bash’s neighbor. He used to have an OnlyFans account—one of the earlier indie porn sites. His videos are considered classics, and I feel more comfortable learning from a friend.
Hm. Rabbit trail.
I refocus on the steak and salad, polishing them off. I gotta hustle to get to the initiation on time.
I jog across the big campus to the half-round building everyone calls the Shed.
It used to be flocked in asbestos, a decent glamour to hide the high-end dormitory and gym within.
Enough people complained about the risk, though, and now the asbestos has been replaced with solar panels.
The Shed is now a completely self-sustaining off-grid building, just like the rest of the complex.
I get in with my retinal scan, then pass the dorm rooms and head into the large, open-air space of the gym. Top-of-the-line equipment lines the walls, and in the middle is a series of sparring mats. Edison, Rae, and Hedy are already there, and they look ready to begin.
Holmes is off to the side, talking to Maverick. He’s been assigned as Mav’s mentor, a stroke of brilliance on Hedy’s part.
Why she needed that stroke of brilliance is kind of a sensitive subject.
Holmes and Mav are identical twins, and when Mav discovered Holmes has been in on the family business since he was practically eighteen… Oof. It really hurt Mav. Put a chill on their normally warm relationship.
Holmes has apologized and explained that he couldn’t say anything—the fathers, aunts, and uncles decided long ago that only the Wimberley staff gets to know what we do out here. All the Wildlings agree it was a shitty decision.
I’m glad everyone is now on the same page, but today is the day I introduce Maverick to my genetic modifications. I’m crossing my fingers that it doesn’t undo all they’ve done to repair things between him and Holmes.
The Wildlings know I was genetically modified by Blake’s science goons. Peripherally aware, anyway. Only the ones who’ve been through initiation have seen the mods in action.
It only took Rami a couple of weeks to be able to look me in the eyes after his initiation, so I’m hopeful Mav will still love me—and Holmes—after this.
For today’s purposes, a large rolling whiteboard covers a section of the wall.
Rich assholes always like to do fucked-up shit with their money. Earlier in the century, it was the Epstein types. Silas Blake, however, was one of the forefathers of genetic manipulation. Edison, Anders, and I are the specialists who handle those operations.
It’s hilarious how many scientists fuck around with genetics and are then surprised when their ultraoptimized subjects get tired of being lab rats. Sometimes we show up and find just a bunch of dead scientists, and we’re left to wonder where their little experiments got off to.
Whenever we come across a genetically interesting specimen, we determine if they can be reintegrated into the general population, if they can be useful in our operations, or if they have to be put down—often as part of a new operative’s initiation.
While the Rae-test tells us how much people will freak out in a strange situation, the initiation test tells us how they will respond tactically in that same situation, with true danger heightening every response.
Snoring can be heard from behind the rolling whiteboard.
Maverick, who has changed into our black tactical gear, walks in from the locker room, his coily hair twisted into a low bun, his body loose.
We have advanced tools that make overcoming our enemies a certainty. Ash rifles, precision drones with low-boom grenades, and, well, me. Still, it’s important for each of our operatives to have critical skills in hand-to-hand combat.
Edison and I have been tapped to test Mav’s skills in that area. Holmes whispers a few last-minute instructions in Mav’s ear, then pushes him onto the mat.
Mav appears to have forgotten his freakout from this morning, a sign that his brain has integrated the information. He looks ready to show us what he’s got.
Edison goes first and puts him on the ground in under a minute.
“How the fuck is he so fast?” Mav asks, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Wait’ll he finds out that Edison and I have been asked to pull our punches in these initiation runs.
“Don’t assume older equals weaker,” Holmes calls from the side.
Especially when it comes to Edison.
Determination sharpening his jaw, Mav pops up and stops holding back.
He loses the attitude and grapples with Edison, knocking him to his back in an ugly move.
We heard Mav had been awarded a purple belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu by his extremely stingy professor a few months ago.
Watching him now, he'd be a solid brown belt—maybe even black—under anyone else.
That said, I know what’s coming next.
Edison’s eyes turn black, and Maverick startles, scrambling away from him. Edison makes him pay by turning over, fast crawling to his frightened nephew, and putting him in a submission hold.
Holmes calls out, “Stay in the fight, Mav!”
I tense, waiting for Mav to either curse or sob. Instead, he nods to H and takes a breath. It costs him to neutralize his expression, but he does it.
Good job, Mav.
Newly locked in, Mav then uses his superior size to reposition and push out of the hold. The maneuver causes Edison to lose his balance and roll off the mat. His chin hits the concrete with a solid crack, splitting it open.
“No mercy, Mav!” Holmes calls from the side. He knows as well as I do that Mav’s first instinct would be to make sure his uncle is okay.
Mav listens to his brother and, instead of offering compassion, uses Edison’s crab move against him. Mav ruthlessly pins him to the ground until he taps out.
Edison, still bleeding, grins up at him. “We’ll work on your startle response, but way to recalibrate.”
Mav’s breathing heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and…
Ah damn.
A tear rolls down his cheek.
Edison acknowledges Mav’s reaction with a quiet, “I’m still me.”
Like all of the adults in our orbit, he’s been “Uncle Eddie” for as long as Maverick’s been alive. Honoré and Holmes reacted in fear and anger when they first saw his eyes, but Mav’s emotion surprises all of us.
It shouldn’t though. Mav’s one of the sweetest guys I know.
Mav shakes his head. “I know. I just…” He sniffs. “This is why you’re always so distant. You know, compared to our other uncles.”
Edison dips his chin in acknowledgment, clearly touched.
Mav steps to the side, wiping his tears. Holmes tries to approach him, but Mav holds up his hand.
“I just need a minute.”