Chapter 29 Warner
Warner
“Look,” says Kenji. “All I’m trying to say is that, everything considered, I think that went pretty well.”
I glance at him. “He was crying.”
“Yeah, but isn’t Hugo always crying these days?”
I look into the darkening night with a sigh, bracing myself as a brisk wind pushes through the street. It’s a struggle to
clear out the sounds of the man’s broken sobs from my head. I had to tell Hugo why he wouldn’t be showing up to the prison
tomorrow. I had to explain that we were ending the interrogation process and cutting off his access to his daughter for an
indefinite period of time. I had to tell him we were transferring Rosabelle to a safe house. I could not assure him that she
would survive. I could not promise him he would see her again.
The meeting did not, in fact, go well.
The entire arrangement with Hugo has been a massive disappointment. I don’t know whether there’s any ready solution for his
heartache; I don’t even know if we’ll be able to let his daughter live long enough for him to try again.
Hugo has been understanding, but inconsolable.
I still feel heavy with his deferred pain, residual grief coursing through me, unprocessed. I have to occasionally talk myself out of a dark mood when an emotional load is particularly fathomless. Sometimes I can’t decipher between what’s been borrowed and what belongs to me.
Right now, I’m trying to focus on the crisp evening air, and not the incessant buzzing in my pocket.
My pager has been going off for hours, but the notifications have been nearly constant these past thirty minutes. I already
know, without looking, that when I finally check my notifications I’ll have to scroll through a hundred angry messages from
Adam.
He’s been giving me moment-by-moment updates on the situation unfolding at Nazeera’s house.
Apparently, he walked in to discover Rosabelle asleep in James’s arms. As if this news wasn’t bad enough, the admission was
followed by a litany of profane remarks riddled with typos—a result of having been sent in rapid-fire succession.
Is this a fucking joke??????>
SHE’S A PSYCOPATH
JUST LIKE YOU
I don’t mean you’re a psychopath bow
now
But you know what I mean
Its s o weird that nazeera doesn’t have any furniutre
THEY”RE TAKLING HER OUT TO DINNER
WHAT THE FUCK
Did you say they could dtake her out to dinner
They said you said they could take her out
I CAN”T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENNG
You hve to fix this
GET THE FUCK OVER HERE
I’ve granted myself the gift of sixty seconds before I reach for my pager again. I need some time to ground myself.
“Hey, are you sure you don’t want to go incognito?” Kenji says suddenly. “People are freaks around you. If you get spotted
things might get weird.”
I manage a tight smile in response.
I don’t usually spend time in the capital city on foot, despite the tremendous efforts we’ve made to restore and rebuild the
area. Ella was the one to establish the seat of government in this region; it was all her undertaking. The resulting metropolis
is an objectively stunning accomplishment, a marriage of old and new architecture meant to mirror the culture of the next
generation: evolution without erasure.
The Waffle is situated at the heart of the new capital; and the surrounding region is referred to as New Capital City, or
the NCC. The truth is, I really enjoy walking through the world my wife envisioned for us. But I can’t spend extended periods
of time in public because too many attempts have already been made on my life. Of course, there’s also the issue of other
people.
The ones who aren’t interested in killing me.
“I’m serious,” Kenji says. “Remember when that woman took off all her clothes and threw them at you? And then she was just
standing there—naked and screaming.”
My pager buzzes again.
“I keep trying to forget,” I say dryly. “But you’re always reminding me. You really seem to love this story.”
“What I want to know is: How did she know you were coming? How did she time it so perfectly? Was it a coordinated thing, or
did she just get lucky?”
I glance at him, saying nothing.
My pager buzzes.
“And, like, what was she hoping was going to happen?” he goes on. “Did she really think being confronted by a naked, screaming
stranger would generate a positive reaction? I seriously want to know what she was thinking. Do you ever wonder what’s going
through their minds?”
“No.”
“But this lady had a dream, right? Like, she was hoping for something. And here’s the thing,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Here’s the real philosophical question: If she’d actually managed
to get you alone for ten minutes, would she have been happy with the reality of you?”
“No.”
“Because I feel like what they really want is just, like, the fantasy, you know?”
My pager buzzes again.
I give myself another thirty seconds before I reach for it.
We’re crossing the city on foot because I’d wanted the chance to expel some of this latent energy I’m carrying. I don’t like to bring it home. I usually hit heavy weights or go for a run when I need to exorcise the excess emotional static from my body, but there was no time for that tonight.
And the walk isn’t too bad.
Streetlamps emit golden light that seems to melt through the early darkness, rendering the streets dusky and indistinct. Pedestrians
move through the night in various formations, dipping in and out of pools of light. Altogether, the feedback is relatively
undramatic. I sense no general panic, no fury or violence, so I try to push it out, away from me, into a kind of insensible
white noise. Crickets chorus through it all.
It’s been a relentlessly long day.
“I don’t know how you deal with it,” Kenji is saying. “The shit some people say to you is so weird I feel embarrassed even
repeating it. If someone ever asked me for a vial of my spit I’d probably fight them.”
I raise an eyebrow at that.
“What?” he counters, defiant. “There’s some dark energy in a question like that. That’s a weird thing to ask for. Why would
you want my spit? What are you going to do with my spit?” He hesitates. “You know what, ew, I don’t want to know.”
Kenji’s energy is a little edgy. Anxious.
He’s been managing spikes of frenetic agitation ever since Nazeera decided she’d be staying in town for an indefinite period
of time. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.
I decide to just let him talk.
Kenji was the one who insisted we take a detour after leaving Hugo’s house.
He claimed there was a new dumpling place he wanted to try.
He assured me Ella was going to love it.
He promised we’d get take-out and go straight home.
He said it would be a nice surprise for her, that she deserved to try something new after being stuck in the house for so long.
I know when I’m being manipulated.
But I relented because it’s true. Because I’m sure Ella would love to try something new after being stuck in the house for
so long.
“So?” Kenji prompts. “Should we go incognito?”
I shake my head. There’s always an introduction of risk when we can’t see each other; I don’t like losing one of my senses.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “It’s dark enough for now, and the streets aren’t too crowded at the moment. I’ll wait until we reach
the restaurant.”
My pager buzzes.
Buzzes again.
I’ve just decided to give myself another thirty seconds when we come to a sudden stop.
“Okay,” says Kenji, frowning at street signs. “I think we’re here.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere? Around here?”
Now I feel myself losing patience. “You don’t even know where this place is, do you?” I say to him. “You said it was right
down the street from Hugo’s neighborhood, but we’ve been walking in circles for at least twenty minutes, and now we’re in
the Ship District, and I have no interest in spending time in the Ship District.”
My pager buzzes.
“No, wait, we’re so close, I swear,” Kenji says, looking around. “It’s supposed to be here.”
We’re stopped on the sidewalk in a congested part of the city lit by twinkle lights, touches of neon, and sans serif signs.
The streets are thicker with bodies here, kids in their late teens and early twenties idling in outfits that will almost certainly
embarrass them in five years’ time. The businesses here were built from repurposed shipping containers salvaged from the old
regulated territories—when The Reestablishment forced the entire population out of their homes and into manageable seas of
metal prisons, corralling them like cattle. The dark history of these rugged containers has been rewritten by a generation
too young to remember the blood that birthed them.
It was Winston’s idea.
He and Alia designed the spread and built out the vision under Ella’s direction. There are Ship Districts in several cities
across the continent; they’re part of the global initiative to redevelop old regulated turf. The raw, rectangular containers
make for interesting visual architecture, but they also support small businesses and generate decent revenue for the city.
I don’t disapprove, generally.
I just don’t want to be here.
I have no interest in trying new foods or waiting in lines or standing in humid, sweat-stained rooms with a sea of loud, unwashed strangers.
Not only do I not enjoy being a public figure in public, but my work consumes far more than half my life.
The precious few hours a day I have to myself I like to spend with my wife.
I don’t go out at night unless I’m with my wife.
If Ella isn’t with me, I’m in the wrong place.
My pager buzzes.
I give myself another ten seconds.
“Shit,” says Kenji suddenly. “Okay, wait, I think this might be the wrong street.”
There’s a burst of laughter from a group nearby; a cloud of sweet-scented smoke drifts into my face.
“All right, enough,” I say. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”
“No way—we’re so close—”
“You don’t know that,” I say to him. “You don’t even know where we are. How did you even hear about this place?”