Chapter 1 #2
“Actually, that’s precisely what happened.
The Chiefs portaled into Cyclos right after you blew up the Scola, grabbed the remaining Radicals, and left Julian to answer to our Council.
” James’s tone was dry and detached. No anger.
No edge. Just cold fact—nothing like the last time Julian had pulled the same crap and sent James into a spiral.
I gawked for a second, too shocked to speak. There was no more doubt about it. Julian was a borderline coward—and after everything we’d been through, I had zero interest in forgiving him, a second time.
"So where are the Radicals now?" I asked, disregarding the shiver running down my spine as more memories of our battle resurfaced.
“Most of them are dead,” James said flatly, as if even mentioning them was beneath him.
“The United Chiefs took the survivors to an undisclosed location—probably interrogating them as we speak. But a few managed to escape, and…” He paused, jaw flexing.
“We fear they’ve recovered the Amplifier again. ”
My chest tightened at his words, and dread curled in my stomach.
"We don’t know much more,” Stephen added.
“The attack was unexpected, and their reasons are unclear.
Some believe it was retaliation for the casualties at Coastal—those you were responsible for.
" His words hit hard, but he didn’t look away.
"Others think it was meant to frighten Cyclos into revoking the consensus. "
My pulse quickened, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. "What do you think?"
Stephen exhaled loudly. "I think their goal didn’t matter in the end, because they didn’t achieve it. Largely thanks to you, and James." He held my attention with more than simple respect. Awe, maybe?
My focus shifted to James, already bracing for answers I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear. "Any losses on our side?"
For a moment, he simply pressed his lips into a grim line.
"We lost seven children," he began, and I couldn’t help but notice how sorrowful he sounded.
"Six were killed by Radicals in the Epicenter.
One…" He swallowed hard. “One was visibly killed by implosion. We can only assume he didn’t realize an Amplifier was active and tried to translate. They found him in a closet, in one of the classrooms.”
Jack. The name slammed into me like a physical force, and bile clawed its way up my throat. I bit it back, the image of his small, innocent face haunting the edges of my mind, and I blinked hard, determined not to let the tears fall.
I had promised I’d come back for him.
And I hadn’t.
His death was on me.
But before I could let the guilt fully sink its teeth in, James pressed on. "We also lost a Council member. Ana?s Dubois. She was our liaison with Alliance." He paused, then cracked his neck. "Her death has put our connection to them on shaky ground—at best."
Blood rushed so loudly in my ears, I struggled to hear him. "So…we’ve lost lives and a lifeline," I whispered, while trying to ignore the grief burning in my throat, and how every word felt like it was breaking on the way out.
"Yeah," James replied quietly, so much so it almost sounded as if all was stripped of hope.
More questions swirled in my mind, tangled and disjointed, but exhaustion was making it impossible to focus. I tried to stifle it, but the yawn came anyway, and instantly betrayed how utterly drained I was.
"I suggest we let you rest and reconvene in a few hours," Stephen said. His voice was still calm and measured, like he was afraid any sudden movement might shatter me. "There’s a lot to discuss."
Understatement of the cycle.
Stephen’s chair scraped back, and I watched everyone move toward the door, tracking their steps while my body stayed limp, too heavy and drained to protest. I needed answers—desperately—but not more than I needed sleep.
"Don't worry, I won't be far," James whispered, as his lips brushed against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. The warmth of his breath lingered, and my cheeks flushed. Three weeks in a coma clearly hadn’t dulled my feelings for him in the slightest.
He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead—so gentle it sent a tremor through my whole body, and my heart lurched at the contact. As the others filed out, James lingered, the last to reach the door. Right before it shut behind him, he turned, and locked his eyes with mine.
In that brief, silent moment, something raw and wordless passed between us—something that felt like a promise, or maybe a warning. I couldn’t tell which.
Only that it mattered.
Once the door clicked shut, I exhaled deeply, and tried to find some inner calm. Three weeks. Three whole weeks confined to this bed, unmoving, helpless.
A horrifying realization struck. I probably reek.
I wrinkled my nose, and grabbed the hem of my T-shirt, lifting it for a cautious sniff.
To my surprise—and slight amazement—I didn’t stink. Not even a little. I blinked, stunned. Had someone washed me?
Oh gods, please tell me it wasn’t James.
The idea of him seeing me naked for the first time—pale, limp, and about as attractive as a deflated balloon—was almost enough to make me die of secondhand embarrassment.
Desperate to shake off the mental image, I scanned the room and spotted another door tucked in the corner. A bathroom, thank the gods—the sole thought of a shower enough to send me into a full-blown mental orgasm.
Bracing myself, I pushed off the bed, determined to make it on my own in one go.
The moment I left the soft edges of the mattress, however, my vision funneled, and for a second, I wasn’t sure which way was up.
My limbs felt foreign, weak—like I’d been stripped of gravity and dropped back into my body too fast.
I reached for something, anything, but my hands didn’t respond well, already shaking from the effort. My legs buckled, and I flopped back onto the bed with the grace of a turtle attempting parkour.
Well. That was elegant.
Now what?
I probably should’ve called for help, but the thought of someone witnessing my pathetic attempt at mobility? Yeah, no thanks. So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I stayed exactly where I was, marinating in the humiliation of being outdone by a few measly steps.
A cane would be nice right about now.
The thought had barely finished forming when out of nowhere, a brown cane popped into existence right in front of me.
What the—
It was simply floating there, wrapped in my red haze like it came straight out of a discount bin at a failed fantasy convention for the elderly.
I blinked, my thoughts scrambling over one another, desperate to make sense of what just happened.
Did I just translate a cane?
Tentatively, I reached for it, my trembling fingers curling around the handle. It appeared to be real—solid, tangible.
I gasped as the realization hit me like a jolt. I had translated a cane. An actual cane. And for the first time, it didn’t come with my life hanging by a thread.
Swallowing hard, I gripped the handle and tried to use it to push myself off the bed once more.
Herculean effort aside, it turned out the cane was more decorative than functional. My knees gave out, and I collapsed back onto the bed with all the dramatic flair of a dying Victorian widow.
Motherf—
Who was I kidding? A cane wouldn’t cut it. I needed something sturdier—like a walker. The gold standard of geriatric chic.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than, poof, a walker appeared right beside the bed.
Hovering only for a second, it quickly settled on the ground with a soft clink.
Wow.
Now wide awake, my heart was thudding like I had run a marathon. The bathroom, the discomfort of being stuck in bed—all of it faded into the background. This was truly happening. At last, I could translate without the threat of imminent death hanging over me!
Oh my gods. This changed everything.
Eager to put this theory to the test, I focused my thoughts. What to manifest first?
My upcoming talk with James crossed my mind, and I decided I could do with some new clothes, makeup, hairbrushes, and perfume. Definitely the latter.
The gulp I let out as everything I wanted materialized on the bed could’ve been comedic in any other context. My red haze shimmered, laying bare the energy behind my magic, and leaving behind a perfectly curated assortment of necessities. My enthusiasm officially hit overdrive.
Jumping out of bed was a bold choice. Fortunately, the walker was nearby, and I landed on it with another elegant huff, grateful for the support. With a flicker of concentration, I transported my freshly acquired wardrobe to the bathroom.
One painstakingly slow shuffle later, I discovered a surprisingly cozy shower and toilet.
Giddy as a kid at Christmas, I took my time.
Showering, grooming—it was all done with the same level of awe as if I’d only discovered running water for the first time.
Meanwhile, chairs popped into existence out of thin air, whenever I felt faint.
Still on my high, I noticed the bathroom’s mirror was laughably inadequate. So, I translated a full-length one. Me. I did that. Muhaha.
My reflection stared back at me, thinner and a little worse for wear, but nothing the right outfit and makeup couldn’t fix. Not bad for someone who survived a nuclear weapon attack.
Next order of business: I needed to talk to James.
Where was my Nexus?
I scanned the room, my mind willing the device to find me. As if on cue, it appeared in my palm, the familiar weight grounding me. Another grin spread across my face, wide and unstoppable.
Without wasting a second, I nexed James, my fingers moving quickly to send a direct message. Come back please. Alone. We need to talk.
Message sent, I exhaled, trying to calm the sudden tightness in my chest.
A hollow beat passed. Then another. The Nexus stayed stubbornly silent in my grip, each second dialing my anxiety up another notch.