6. Chapter Six #3
This time, as Travis starts speaking, my brain abandons me.
He says, “He was young. Pre or very early teen, if Carter had to guess. He was in the cell with Carter and Casey. Carter thinks he was sold maybe 3 or 4 days before his own auction, but the timeline is fuzzy. He didn’t have a clock in the cell, and there was no light coming into the room they put him in at the end to punish him for fighting when they came for Elliot.
Quinton isn’t supposed to be selling kids in that region, so it was likely a side sale.
Something quiet. Would have had to be with someone he could trust not to out him to the other players in the area. ”
He says, “Blue eyes. Blonde. Pale.”
He says, “He wanted his mom.”
He says, “English speaking. No discernable accent.”
And my brain doesn’t protect me. My world doesn’t fade.
My name is Ace. I’m working tech for the clean-up of the Roarke Operation. I can smell the sticky sweet scent of my energy drink. I can feel the heat from my monitors. I can hear the internal fans whirring, trying to get the temperatures to come down.
I can taste bile on my tongue.
Can taste cum.
Travis asks, “You think we’ve got a shot in hell of finding him?”
There’s a little boy to find and yet… my reality is painfully in focus.
Why? Why isn't my brain fogging over? Why is it making me be here right now?
I don’t want to be here.
“Ace?” he asks, his voice quiet now, his confidence gone. “You think it’s possible? To find him?”
I curl my fingers around the arms of my chair. “No. Not impossible. Not - not with the systems I’ve built. The facial recognition software might - well, let me see what I can do.”
I turn back to my monitors, eager to feel the relief of the keys beneath my fingers.
It doesn’t work.
“His name was Elliot,” Travis adds. “I can’t remember if I mentioned that.”
I nod, pulling up the first program I want to try and starting to enter the search parameters. “No accent, you said?”
“Yeah.”
I decide to start with the United States first, just to be able to narrow down the net we’re tossing out there.
My hands are shaking.
There are waves crashing inside of me, sloshing around my stomach, slamming against the cage of my chest. The walls I’ve managed to build over the years are cracking with every rising tide. I’m taking on water. I’m going to fucking drown.
How young is he going to end up being? Is he still alive? Is he owned by one or is he communal? Is he still terrified or have they broken him?
Is he being kept in a closet?
Is he all alone in the dark?
Can he hear any music?
“Ace, man, are you - hey, you good?” Travis asks, his voice soft. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I accidentally flinch away. He pulls back immediately, hand in the air to show he’s not a threat. “Alright. I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re okay.”
I force a laugh. I wonder if it sounds as hollow as it feels. I wonder if he can see the way I’m breaking around the edges. “I know you’re not going to hurt me. Just… zoned out, or whatever. Took me by surprise for a second.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled tight in concern.
I realize as I look into his stupidly warm eyes that this is the version of Travis that Carter must get.
The version that maybe the others got too, whenever he got a chance to turn soft with them.
Did Matt ever get this version? Was this how Travis talked to him after the incident?
How Travis talked to Bryce the night Keaton made the call to save his life?
“I’m just tired,” I tell him in a cracking voice. I turn away. I can’t look at him. I can’t - fuck, I can’t have him looking at me like that. “I’ll finish this up and get some quick shut eye while you’re traveling and the program starts to run.”
“You sure? If this is asking too much…”
“It’s a kid,” I tell him, my eyes locked on the screen. Why am I still aware? Why am I still feeling this? Why does my office suddenly feel so small? “It’s never asking too much. I’ve got this. You just focus on the mission. I’ll bring you the packet when it finishes printing.”
He doesn’t leave.
The air gets heavier. Thicker.
Don’t. Please don’t. Just leave.
“You think he’s alive?” he asks, his voice haunted and low.
I close my eyes.
I stick to the facts. I know so many facts when it comes to the kids. Keaton’s favorite was always getting to save the kids. “Odds are really good, actually. Hard to get kids. Even harder for little boys. He’ll-” my throat closes up.
He’ll be too valuable. We might find him broken. Find him a shell of a person. Find him with the soul of an adult who’s seen battle. But he’ll likely be alive.
I don’t tell Travis that some days, after your life is like that, being alive isn’t the best outcome.
I don’t tell him that even if we get our hands on this kid, even if we manage to save him, he’s going to spend the rest of his life fighting to survive.
I don’t tell him I’m fighting right here, right now.
I just tell him, “You should go. Pack. I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, okay. Just don’t tell Carter we’re looking for him yet? Not until we at least figure out the kid’s identity. I don’t want to get his hopes up or anything. Not sure he could handle that.”
I don’t let myself think about hopes or broken hearts or little boys and the monsters who like to hurt them.
“I get that, yeah. No worries.”
“Thank you, Ace.”
I can’t say no worries again, my throat too tight. I just nod, my eyes focused on the screen, and hope he actually leaves this time.
When the door closes, I look around to check that I’m really alone. Then I open my desk drawer with shaking hands and search out the two orange bottles tucked in the back. Both prescriptions are supposed to be strictly for emergencies. It’s the only reason the doc was willing to give them to me.
This feels like an emergency.
I carefully spill out one of the pills meant to quiet my mind and ease the panic in my chest. Then, after a slight hesitation, I grab the second bottle and spill one of those pills out too.
I’ll need it to counteract how fucking tired the first pill will make me.
Considering I already get drowsy from them on days when I’m well-rested, there’s a chance this one will knock me right on my ass without the extra help tonight.
I swallow the pills down with the rest of my energy drink, then squeeze my eyes shut to wait.
I don't let myself think while I wait.
I don't.
I don’t think about the monsters. I don't think about what they used to smell like. I don’t think about what their hands would do, or the things they’d whisper like they were sharing a secret, or the way they’d laugh like something was funny, like we were just being silly, like I wasn’t bleeding and shaking and wondering what I did to deserve - and - and -
And then I’m actually not thinking about it.
I’m not thinking about any of it.
Because - thank fucking god - the pills are kicking in.
Everything finally starts to fade out, pushed away by the numbness I’d been so desperately waiting for. When I open my eyes, the world is slow and quiet. Nearly everything is fuzzy around the edges. Relief is the only sharp thing left. It’s energizing. Exhilarating.
There’s a kid for me to find. His name is Elliot. He looked Caucasian. Sounded American.
Simple.
I know how to do this. It’s my job and I am very good at my job.
I’m not tired anymore.
In fact, I don't feel anything at all.