Chapter Seven Jace #2
After Elliot goes back to bed, I spend four hours preparing the extraction protocol. I pull training materials from my Foundry files, modify them for a willing subject, add safeguards that weren't part of the original design.
The result is something that might work. Or might not. I won't know until I try.
At 0600, my phone buzzes. Another message from Jagger.
Abernathy wants to meet, told me to forward it. Wants to see where you’re at with Moore. 0900. His office. Bring your case file.
I type a response: Acknowledged.
Then I add: Webb status?
Still digging. He pulled your Foundry records. Complete file.
My Foundry records. Everything from age eight to graduation at seventeen.
Every test, every failure, every success.
Every kill I made during training. Every psychological evaluation that concluded I was a perfect specimen: intelligent, adaptable, and completely devoid of the emotional responses that compromise lesser operatives.
Webb is looking for evidence that I've malfunctioned. That my conditioning has degraded. That I'm no longer the weapon they trained me to be.
The Ministry of Enforcement building is the same as yesterday. Same biometric scanner. Same rotating access code. Same receptionist who doesn't look up.
But something has changed. I feel it the moment I step off the elevator. A tension in the air. A shift in the patterns.
There's a man standing outside Abernathy's office. Tall, thin, dressed in the grey uniform of Erasure.
Alfred Webb.
He turns as I approach. His smile is the same one I remember from training: patient, cold, utterly without warmth.
"Reaper," he says. "It's been a while."
"Director Webb."
"I hear you've been making interesting choices lately." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the antiseptic he uses on his hands. "Acquiring assets outside protocol. Fabricating cover stories. Avoiding Ministry couriers."
"I don't know what you're referring to," I say.
"Of course you don't." His smile widens. "That's what makes you so valuable, Jace. You lie beautifully. Always have." He leans in, voice dropping. "But you can't lie to me. I built you. I know every response, every tell, every calculated micro-expression. And right now, you're afraid."
I'm not afraid. Fear is an emotion. Emotions are weaknesses. I eliminated my weaknesses fifteen years ago.
But something is happening in my chest. A tightness that makes it hard to breathe. A coldness that spreads through my limbs.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"The same thing I've always wanted. Perfect soldiers. Perfect weapons. Perfect loyalty to The Silent." He straightens, smooths his uniform. "You were my best work, Jace. My prototype. Everything that came after was built on your foundation."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be." His eyes harden. "Which is why it would be such a waste if I had to unmake you."
The threat hangs between us. I process it, calculate responses, weigh options.
"Is that why you're here? To threaten me?"
"I'm here to give you a choice." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small data chip. "This is everything I have on your deviation. The surveillance logs. The information about your pet. The psychological profile that suggests your conditioning is failing."
I look at the chip. Don't reach for it.
"What's the alternative?"
"Return the asset. Report for re-evaluation. Demonstrate that your loyalty to The Silent is intact." He holds out the chip. "Do that, and this disappears. Your record stays clean. You continue working. Everyone wins."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I present this to the Custodians. And we find out together how much of you is left when they're done taking you apart."
I take the chip. Turn it over in my fingers. Such a small thing. Such a simple solution.
All I have to do is give up Elliot.
The thought forms and immediately something in me rejects it. Not calculation. Not strategy. Something deeper. Feral, animalistic instinct.
I can't. I won't. He's mine.
I pocket the chip. Meet Webb's eyes.
"I'll consider your offer," I say.
"You have forty-eight hours. After that, I file." He steps aside, gestures toward Abernathy's door. "Your meeting is waiting. Try not to make any more mistakes."
I walk past him without responding. The door opens. I enter.
Abernathy is behind his desk, files spread out in front of him. He looks up when I enter, and his expression is unreadable.
"Harrison. Take a seat."
I sit.
"Was that Webb?"
"He made his position clear."
"And what position is that?"
"He wants me to surrender the asset and report for re-evaluation."
Abernathy is quiet for a moment. Then he leans back, folds his hands.
"I'm going to tell you something that doesn't leave this room," he says. "Webb has been building a case against you for three days. He believes your conditioning is failing. He believes you've developed emotional attachments that compromise your operational effectiveness."
"And what do you believe?"
"I believe you're the best Reaper I've ever seen.
I believe your kill record speaks for itself.
I believe your value to this Ministry far exceeds the cost of one damaged asset.
" He pauses. "But I also believe that something has changed in you.
And I need to know what that is before I decide how to proceed. "
"Nothing has changed."
"Then why the asset? Why the deviation?"
I consider the question. Weigh my options. Calculate the most effective response.
And then I do something I've never done before.
I tell the truth.
"Because I looked at him and felt something I don't have a name for," I say.
"Because the idea of him being hurt makes me want to kill things.
Because when I'm in the same room as him, my patterns change, my protocols shift, my calculations factor in variables they never factored in before.
" I meet Abernathy's eyes. "I don't know what that is.
But I know I can't stop it. And I know that if Webb takes me apart to find out, he won't like what he discovers. "
The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Then Abernathy does something unexpected.
He laughs.
"You know what that sounds like, Harrison?
" He shakes his head, still chuckling. "That sounds like the beginning of something very dangerous.
Or very useful." He leans forward. "Give me the intelligence on Moore.
Give me something I can use. And I'll keep Webb off your back long enough for you to figure out what the hell is happening to you. "
"And if I can't produce the intelligence?"
"Then I can't help you. And Webb gets what he wants." He stands, extends his hand. "You have six days left. Do you have anything new to report?”
“Not yet.”
“See to it that the next time we meet… you do. For what it's worth," Abernathy says, "I hope you figure it out. Whatever it is. Because if you don't, Webb will take you apart piece by piece. And I'd hate to lose my best Reaper over something as inconvenient as feelings."
I leave without responding.
But his words stay with me all the way home.
Feelings.
Is that what this is?
I don't know. I don't have the answer.
But I'm starting to think I need to find out.
The apartment is quiet when I return.
Elliot is on the couch, reading one of my books. He looks up when I enter, and something in his expression shifts. Softens.
"We need to get into your brain. Now.”
His face falls. “But… but.”
“There is no longer a choice. I am running out of time.”
His leg starts bouncing but he nods. “Tell me what to do.”
The extraction protocol requires controlled conditions. Dim lighting. Minimal sensory input. A focal point for the subject to anchor themselves when the memories become overwhelming.
I turn off the overhead lights, leaving only the lamp in the corner. The shadows soften the room, blur the edges. Elliot sits on the couch with his back against the armrest, legs pulled up, hands loose in his lap.
I sit facing him. Close enough to intervene if needed. Far enough that he doesn't feel trapped.
"The process works by guided association," I explain. "I'll ask you questions. You'll follow the thread of your answers. When the memories start to surface, don't fight them. Let them come."
"What if I can't control it? What if I go back and can't get out?"
"That's why I'm here." I hold up my hand, palm out. "If you start to dissociate, focus on my voice. If my voice isn't enough, focus on this. Count my fingers. Name the colors in the room. Ground yourself in the present."
He nods. His breathing is shallow, rapid. Fear response.
"We don't have to do this," I say. The words surprise me. I didn't plan to offer an exit.
"Yes, we do." He meets my eyes. "You said the alternative is worse. I believe you."
"Then let's begin." I lean forward slightly. "Close your eyes. Think about the last time you felt safe. Before Moore. Before the pens. The last time you remember feeling like nothing could hurt you."
His eyes close. His breathing slows.
"I was six," he says. "My mom made pancakes on a Sunday morning. The sun was coming through the kitchen window. She let me put extra syrup on them because it was my birthday."
"Hold that image. The kitchen. The sun. The syrup." I keep my voice low, steady. "Now let the image fade. Don't force it. Just let it go dark around the edges."
He's quiet. I watch the micro-expressions shift across his face. Memory. Loss. Grief.
"Good. Now I want you to think about Moore's house. Not the basement. Not the sessions. Just the house. The first time you saw it."
His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists.
"It was big," he says. "White columns. Circular driveway. There were roses in the front garden. Red ones." A pause. "He liked red."
"What else do you remember? The layout. The rooms."
"There was a foyer. Marble floors. A staircase that curved up to the second floor. He took me up those stairs the first night. Made me count each step. Twenty-three."
I note the detail. Counting. A coping mechanism he developed early.
"What was on the second floor?"
"Bedrooms. A study. A locked door at the end of the hall that he said I wasn't allowed to open." His breathing hitches. "I opened it once. When he was gone."
"What was inside?"
Silence. His face has gone pale, the color draining like water from a cracked vessel.
"Files," he whispers. "Boxes of files. Pictures. Videos. He kept everything. Everyone he'd ever..." He stops. Swallows. "There were names. Dates. Amounts paid. It was like a ledger. Like he was keeping score."
I lean forward. This is what I need. This is what will keep him alive.
"Do you remember any of the names?"
His eyes snap open. The pupils are dilated, the whites visible around the edges. He's on the edge of a dissociative break, balanced between present and past.
"I can't," he says. "I can't go back there. I can't—"
"Elliot." I reach out, take his hands. The contact grounds him. I feel his pulse hammering against my palms. "You're here. You're in my apartment. Count my fingers."
His eyes drop to our joined hands. His lips move silently. Counting.
"Ten," he says finally. "You have ten fingers."
"Good. Name something you can see."
"The lamp. The books on your shelf. Your eyes." He exhales shakily. "Grey. Your eyes are grey."
"Good. You're here. You're present." I don't release his hands. "We can stop."
"No." He shakes his head. "I saw the files. I remember seeing them. If I can just—" He closes his eyes again. "There was a red folder. He kept it separate from the others. I saw a name on the front. The letters were gold."
"What name?"
Silence. His brow furrows. He's reaching for something buried deep, clawing through layers of trauma and time.
"Harrison," he says.
The word stuns me.
"What?"
"Harrison." His eyes open. "The folder said Harrison. I remember because I thought it was strange. It was the only one with a person's name. The others were numbered."
My mind races. Harrison. My name. My family's name.
There are files on my family in Moore's archive. Files that Moore kept separate, special, marked in gold.
"Did you open it?" I ask. My voice comes out flat, controlled. "Did you see what was inside?"
"No. I heard him coming. I had to get out." He's shaking now, the tremors running through his whole body. "I'm sorry. I should have looked. I should have—"
"You did well." I squeeze his hands. "You survived. That's what matters."
But my mind is already elsewhere. Already calculating.
Moore has files on my family. Files he considers important enough to separate from his other records. Files that could contain information about the Harrisons that even I don't know.
Information that could be leverage against The Silent itself.
"We're done for tonight," I say. "You need to rest."
Elliot nods weakly. He's exhausted, wrung out, barely holding himself together.
I help him to his feet, walk him to the bedroom, pull back the covers. He climbs in without protest, too tired to resist.
"Jace," he says as I turn to leave.
I stop at the doorway.
"Will you stay? Just for a little while?"
I should say no. I have work to do. Plans to make. A new variable to factor into my calculations.
"Yes," I say instead.
I cross to the bed, sit on the edge. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it.
Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Sleep claims him, pulling him down into darkness.
I stay exactly where I am.
Watching. Waiting. Thinking about a red folder with my family's name written in gold.
And wondering what secrets Moore has been keeping about the Harrisons.