Chapter 6
Instead of the field from which we departed, the van makes its next stop outside a row of abandoned storefronts.
Flickering neon signs and dilapidated vinyl banners hang below equally derelict, but lived-in, shuttered apartments.
Detritus float down the road like tumbleweeds, accompanied every so often by a stumbling drunk citizen.
Though this is the city in which I was born, this post-apocalyptic wasteland is foreign to me.
Everyone gets out and shuffles toward a door a few steps down from street level. Everyone but Taylor.
“Miss Piccolo.” Taylor stands on the sidewalk like an albatross, arms crossed and feet spread apart. In an instant, her demeanor changes from the comfortable companionability with her fellow Order members, to frigid formality.
“Yes?”
“I expected inappropriate behavior from you, but not direct insolence.” She’s transformed before my eyes into Eos, a product of saturation in rebellion. “I gave you one instruction: stay in the van. Without explanation, you disobeyed me.”
Shock renders me unable to properly defend myself. “Explanation? The explanation is that I was trying to help you.”
“I do not need your help.” Somehow, a lot of menace is packed inside her tiny frame. “I need you to listen to me.”
“Oh, sorry for trying to make sure a giant fucking monster didn’t obliterate you,” I reply, probably much too hotly.
“Next time you disobey me I will put you into an Order cell and I will leave you there indefinitely.” She is not angry.
I’m not sure she’s even capable of it. Anger is too human, too vulnerable.
“Circumvent your heroic urges. You may be an Order member by way of technicality, but do not labor under the assumption you are anything other than my prisoner.”
I’m briefly taken aback at the ominous look on her face, but eventually her words find their target and wound me.
Like any maladjusted young adult, the hurt manifests itself into rage.
“You know what? Screw you. I realize you think I’m this pathetic, pampered airhead who let herself get kidnapped by the first attractive person who gave her positive attention.
While that is…somewhat true, I’m not helpless and I’m not stupid. ”
“No, you are not. Arrogant and reckless, but not helpless or stupid.” She sighs, visibly frustrated with me. “I suppose this is my fault. I knew bringing you here was a bad idea.”
“Yeah, you’ve been short on good ideas recently, huh?” Burning eyes bore into mine, strikingly similar to the red-hot coals of the Lightbringer. “If all had gone to plan, the Lightbringer could’ve killed you instead.”
“Not because of that,” she replies. “You are close to home. This is probably difficult for you. Emotionally.”
Exhaling, I shiver and turn away from her.
November is no joke in New York City—temperatures routinely drop below freezing—and the air burns my face.
The city streets bring comfort, even if these particular ones are unfamiliar.
I take a couple steps up the block and peer down the avenue into the darkness ahead.
Tears spill out onto my cheeks as I close my eyes and imagine the home I once considered a prison.
A place in which I’d gladly again imprison myself.
“Like you give a shit about my feelings. Well, you care if my feelings get in the way of the missions, right? If my hysterical female emotions get out of hand and I do something crazy, like try to save your life.” Rubbing my arms to try and create some warmth, I turn around. “I don’t even know why I did that.”
“Because you thought it was the right thing to do. Because you do not know any better.” Off my miffed look, she elaborates.
“Javier and Alisa, they are soldiers. I gave them an order and they followed it. They know the bravest thing anyone can do is the right thing, and sometimes the right thing to do is nothing. You, however, do not have their decades of experience. You have a couple weeks’ worth of lessons and an admirable, if na?ve, moral compass. ”
“Thank you?”
“What you did was stupid, yes, but it was also brave. I can teach you to make better decisions under pressure, but I cannot teach you courage. Yes, I am angry you disobeyed my orders to your own peril, but I am also proud of your tenacity.”
Hopefully the brisk air reddens my cheeks enough that the blush warming them isn’t as obvious as it feels. “So, you’re saying charging headfirst at a killer robot was not my best move?”
Taylor pushes air out through her nose. “We will be working closely together and—” She cuts herself off and appears to gather her thoughts. “Caring about someone is dangerous.”
“Caring about no one is dangerous.” Prodding further, I inquire, “If I were on that rooftop, what would you have done?” She doesn’t respond, only casts her scowling gaze toward the street. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I would have aided you in any way I could. You do not possess the skills necessary to do the same. Staying with Mason was not a punishment. I did it because it made the most sense and kept you safest.” I get the sense she never intended to be this forthcoming, so I stay quiet.
“I have to protect you, and I will. You have not been asked, nor do I expect you, to do the same for me.”
In my experience dealing with Papa, whose temper could spike and plummet in the blink of an eye, it was always beneficial to know when to back down.
Sometimes, you battle and win. Sometimes, you battle and lose.
But now, here in no man’s land, where the smoke has cleared and both sides can see each other clearly, is the time to reach out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”
“Apology accepted.” Her features soften. “This life is hard, Miss Piccolo. Survival requires detachment. That kind of compartmentalization does not come easily to everyone.”
“I guess it comes easily to you,” I murmur.
When her golden eyes meet mine, the warmth has returned to them. Taylor is back, replacing the cold soldier who admonished me. “Not always.”
After lending me a hooded sweatshirt and bandana to wear as a disguise, Taylor leads me down concrete steps toward a wooden door, knocking and whispering a password to a pair of eyes in a rectangular slat.
Inside the deceivingly sparse storefront is a sultry, bustling bar.
People drinking and enjoying raucous conversation populate crowded wooden tables, shrouded in thick cigarette smoke and illuminated by hazy red and blue lamps.
Tucked in the back is a three-piece jazz band, immediately setting my heart alight.
I haven’t heard jazz music since I was kidnapped.
On a night not unlike this night, in a place not unlike this place.
In a cozy corner Alisa tends to Javier and the forearm-length gash on his arm, while Mason loiters near the musicians, drink in hand.
People shout “Eos” and offer drinks, instantly swarming Taylor.
All offers are declined except the whiskey Mason provides when he eventually cuts through the crowd, relieving a portion of the attention on her.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been in a social situation where the attention was solely focused on someone else.
My captor, visibly uncomfortable with the adoration being slathered on her, downs a glass of whiskey in one gulp.
A bearded older man jovially slaps her on the back, and though she doesn’t react, I wince in her stead.
It springs me to action, and I weave through the crowd toward Alisa and Javier.
Javier’s face hovers near Alisa’s ear, murmuring words that brings a gentle smile onto her face.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say, and Javier scowls, or maybe that’s just his face, but Alisa nods at me. “Could I have some bandages?”
Alisa turns from wife to medic, and her eyes scan me for injury. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but she is.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at Taylor. “Can’t hurt to curry favor with the boss, right?”
The older woman snickers and hands me bandages, as well as a bottle of transparent solution and a clean hand towel. “Do you want help?”
“No, no,” I say, waving her off. “You stay here. I’ll wrangle her.”
“Godspeed.” Javier raises his glass to me.
With an appreciative smile I take my leave, forcibly elbowing my way through the throng of people surrounding Taylor. Inhaling three slow breaths, I circle around them to slide between Taylor and Mason.
“Hate to break up the party, but I’ve got to steal Eos.” I flash the bandages at everyone and their faces are a mix of amusement and confusion. “Our hero here dodged a couple bullets tonight. Except one.”
Congenial laughter breaks out around us. “When you get back, we gotta hear the story of you and those Rangers in Atlanta,” someone calls out.
“Oh! And Mickey ain’t heard the one about you and Selene in Indianapolis years ago!” A slim man turns to his friend. “Them two blew up one of Thorne’s radio towers.”
“We’ll be back before you know it.” I guide Taylor by the arm toward the hallway I hope leads to a bathroom. Obediently, she follows close behind, snatching a bottle of whiskey from a fellow Order member on our way in.
The bathroom is ruthlessly cramped, possessing one sink, two narrow stalls with broken doors, and at least three unidentifiable, nauseating odors.
Graffiti colors every available surface, only a surprisingly small number of which is targeted at Papa.
The sink is marginally detached from the wall, and the single mirror is blurry and cracked like somebody shot it.
Setting down her bottle on the sink behind me, Taylor gives me a suspicious eyeful as I loosen my bandana and toss back the hood. “Why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean? Doing what?”
“Helping me.”
I arrange the medical supplies and dab antiseptic on a towel. “You’re the one keeping me alive, dummy. It would behoove me to make sure you don’t die of an infection. Plus, you didn’t look thrilled to be fawned upon out there.”