Chapter 23 Warner
Warner
There’s a sudden explosion of commotion.
Alarms blast, warning lights flashing across all systems as Rosabelle seizes suddenly in her hospital bed. Her eyes nearly
roll back in her head. She takes convulsive breaths, strands of white-blond hair cutting across her face. She looks limp and
ashen, like she might lose consciousness. Her body seizes again.
Fascinating.
Nearly two weeks of futile silence and now a deluge. Her fear is so severe and consuming it radiates like a flare, burning
brighter than all other emotions in the room.
Except, perhaps, one other.
“What’s happening?” says James, eyes wild, as a team of medics rush around him. “What the hell just happened?”
“She’s going into shock,” says one of them. “I need you to get out of here—”
It’s a struggle to remain focused on Rosabelle.
The uproar and influx of bodies makes for a staggering flood of psychic feedback; I have to brace myself against it, steeling
my mind as if to withstand the lashes of a firestorm.
“Wait—what?” says James. “Why is she going into shock?”
His fear, her fear.
“She needs to calm down—she’s lost control—”
His fear, her fear.
“But she was fine a second ago!”
I close my eyes.
Collective urgency; flashes of anger; the slam of metal; the rush of wheels; impatience; irritation; the proliferation of
alarms; the rattle of carts; vibrations of footfalls—
“Blood oxygen levels at ninety-two percent and dropping,” shouts a medic I know well. Dr. Kazemi. “Heart rate is spiking—”
I open my eyes.
“James, get the hell out of my way,” someone barks at him.
“General,” says Dr. Kazemi, speaking in my direction. “If we don’t do something quickly, she could end up with permanent organ
damage—”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” James yells, rearing back as soldiers surge around him.
Rosabelle is hyperventilating.
Her eyes are directed toward the ceiling, wide with panic. The harnesses are undone and unnecessary, hanging like dark streamers
from her hospital bed. She can’t seem to move. Her terror is so severe it’s paralyzed her.
No, it’s greater than terror.
It’s terror advancing into hysteria, cut by shame and self-loathing. Despair.
Interesting.
“C’mon, man,” says Liam, “you can’t be here right now—”
“What are you going to do to her?” James cries, fighting the group of soldiers trying to drag him away.
I stretch my neck, tense my jaw. The room is thick with anger and frustration. The rise of collective panic threatens to blot out Rosabelle’s feedback.
I close my eyes again.
His fear, her fear.
“James,” says Allie, “she’s going to be fine—”
“Blood pressure is falling!”
“Get the fuck off me—”
Doors slamming; alarms screaming; impatience rising; the smell of antiseptic; the whirr of a curtain closing; confusion; irritation;
stabs of pain; the clatter of steel instruments—
I open my eyes.
“It’s not clear what’s causing this reaction,” one medic argues with another. “She might benefit from a tranquilizer—”
There’s too much chaos.
“Why won’t you do anything?” James shouts at me. “Say something—make them stop—”
Rosabelle’s eyes are nearly closed. Her lips are parted, her chest rising and falling too quickly as she strains for breath.
Her body is rocked by tremors. She’s nearly insensate; her fear is losing its shape, having grown beyond the bounds of her
body. Panic has devoured her.
“General? We need your approval to sedate her—”
James breaks violently away from the soldiers, leaving at least two of them doubled over in pain. He turns in a wide arc,
finding my eyes across the room, and aims his frenetic agitation in my direction.
“Don’t let them sedate her,” he cries. “If she goes under she might not resurface again—”
“Blood oxygen levels at eighty-eight percent!”
“She’s not in control of her mind,” argues the medic. “She’s in severe distress and she needs assistance—”
Four soldiers tackle James again, forcing him away from Rosabelle, and he swears in anger.
“She’s not crazy,” he yells as he’s dragged backward. “There’s nothing wrong with her mind! She’s just scared—”
“General.” Kazemi again. She’s standing close to me now. “If we don’t get the patient stabilized she could go into cardiac
arrest. We need to make a decision before it’s too late.”
“Rosabelle,” James cries angrily. “Rosabelle, can you hear me?”
At the sound of her name, her eyes widen.
Remarkable.
“Rosabelle, I’m still here—”
“General—”
“No,” I say. Then, to the soldiers: “Let him go.”
They release James, but with palpable confusion. He bolts forward and I hold up a hand to stop him. “Wait.”
“What?” James is flushed; breathing hard. “Why?”
I take a step toward the girl.
The crowd parts before me, giving me a clear path. “I want everyone but James to leave the room.”
There’s a moment of uncertain quiet among the voices, alarms still blaring. A spate of disbelief, anger, and disappointment
is leveled in my direction.
“General, are you sure—”
I lift my head. “Everyone out. Now.”
Another half second of hesitation, and the reluctant crowd disperses nearly at once. The door slams closed behind them. James rushes to her bedside.
His fear is quieting.
Her fear is quieting.
“Rosabelle,” he says desperately. “Are you still there? I’m still here.”
She blinks softly, her eyes glazed. Her heart rate has begun to stabilize; the alarms have begun to retreat.
“Are you okay?” he asks her.
Her hands tense and release; color moves slowly back into her cheeks. Her fear is being slowly displaced by calm. A crush
of exhaustion. Acute longing.
A faint rush of desire.
My jaw tightens.
The two of them together generate an emotional load so turbulent I can’t quite distinguish one from the other. It’s surgical
work, separating the threads, tracing each back to its source.
James, of course, has never been subtle.
But Rosabelle—
She turns her head against her pillow, her face flushed. Then she looks up at my brother and experiences a shock of pain so
brutal and unexpected I take a step back.
I hear her intake of breath.
I think I’ve seen enough.
“James,” I say quietly. “I need you to leave.”
“What?” He straightens, detonating before me. Anger; fear; frustration. “Why?”
I press my fingers to my forehead, trying to release the tension. I’m suddenly agitated. Fatigued.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I say to him. “Right now, I need you to go.”
“But—”
“I’m not going to kill her.”
Rosabelle turns sharply to look at me.
James is nonplussed. “But—”
“We’ll talk about this later,” I say again, meeting his gaze. My head has begun to pound. “For now, I need to you to trust
me.”
James looks between me and Rosabelle a few more times before I feel him finally, begrudgingly relent. He swears under his
breath, working the anger out of his body before he turns to Rosabelle.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” he says. “I promise. And don’t worry, Warner’s not as scary as he looks.”
“Don’t lie to her,” I say coldly.
James shoots me a hard look.
There’s a spike of fear from Rosabelle as she watches us warily, saying nothing. She doesn’t say goodbye to James, not even
as I feel her pain rising as he leaves. Instead, she watches him go with intention, her eyes lingering on the door even after
it shuts behind him with a slam.
It’s a moment before Rosabelle turns to look at me.
We lock eyes from across the room and, almost instantly, her emotional feedback goes cold. She reverts back to the dead battery
she was in prison.
Astonishing.
I sort through the files in my head, trying to recall every experience I’ve ever had with her. I’m searching for patterns. Inconsistencies. I can’t decide whether she’s in full control of this strange phenomenon.
If she’s able to open and close the doors to her mind, why not shut me out sooner? If she can’t, why would The Reestablishment
employ an unstable mercenary?
There’s something I’m missing.
Setting aside her executioner skills, she’s thus far proven her capacity for espionage, unknown chemical warfare, and cyber
hacking. She nearly succeeded in stealing a military jet while under relentless fire. She’s exhibited unprecedented mental
and physical fortitude not only in prison, but under interrogation and duress. Upon admission to the hospital her most recent
injuries had been declared so critical the medics couldn’t believe she’d maintained consciousness until the end.
Why, then, when comparatively uninjured, did she collapse en route to The New Republic? Why, when given something to eat,
had she vomited up her food in a panic? Why, after mercilessly slaughtering three others at the rehab facility, hadn’t she
pulled the trigger to kill Kenji when she had the chance?
I tilt my head at her.
More concerning than all else: I can’t decide whether her erratic and inconstant feelings toward my brother are rooted in
reality or subterfuge.
Rosabelle holds my gaze with a steady implacability, her eyes cold and vacant. She says nothing, and the nonaction is its own weapon. When she stops speaking she seems to draw a sword.
I understand the power of silence. I know what it’s like to be watched and dissected. If I lived in a comprehensive surveillance
state, I, too, would no doubt cease to speak altogether. But never in my life have I met anyone capable of presenting perfect
emotional stillness. Never have I stood in a room with another person and known true quiet.
This silence is new and a little disorienting.
I can’t deny that the reprieve is a relief for my tired mind, but it occurs to me then that I’ve never been alone with Rosabelle;
not like this. Even when she was unconscious upon arrival, there were medics on rotation, checking her vitals. But more than
that, she appears to have physically hardened inside herself, sitting upright now with a strength she couldn’t summon only
moments ago.
I take a step toward her.
She watches me closely.
She’s more alert. Vigilant. My own instincts sharpen in response. Far from the panic-stricken girl she was just minutes prior,
she now seems dangerous. She’s more awake in every practical way, and yet, somehow—
Living death before my eyes.
I stand over her, studying her blank face. She averts her gaze, and I can almost feel her fight a flinch.
“Why is it,” I whisper, finally breaking the silence, “that you don’t seem to be truly alive unless you’re near my brother?”
She looks up sharply.