Chapter 2
I Do Love It When You Get Murderous
Dear ol’ thoughtful “Uncle Magnum” had told Homer, Yolanda, and Armando—collectively our “ninja instructors”—to give us a few days off from training to recover from Griffin’s death.
As if a few days would cut it.
As if any amount of time would soothe over our devastating loss.
Since our ninja instructors, along with every other fucking weasel of a person in our small hometown of Ridgemore, were in Magnum’s back pocket, they didn’t show up this afternoon to kick our ever-loving asses like they had for the last several days—that we remembered.
Who knew how many reboots we’d forgotten?
How many times we’d trained with them over the years that were pocked full of holes vast enough to swallow entire months of our lives?
I carried a constant morass of disgust deep within my gut. Every day I woke it was with the same churning sensation, as if a strange creep were in bed with me, his curdling leer and hard-on attesting to the fact that I’d experienced a violation of the worst magnitude.
Brady, Hunt, Layla, and I had vented our despair on our punching bags and dummies, sparring till we were bruised and bloodied, chests heaving as if our instructors had led us through one of their grueling workouts after all.
And afterward we’d gone for a long, fast run until our lungs had burned and Layla had bent over, begging us to stop.
All that hadn’t done much to ease the wrath seething inside us. But it had helped to pass the time.
Under the cover of darkness, with Hunt’s “mother” Alexis, aka scientist-superspy Marisa, asleep in her room on the second floor of the house, the four of us huddled atop a twin mattress in the sleepover room.
When we dragged our usual mattresses from the walk-in closet, we didn’t have the heart to leave the fifth behind.
All five of them lay spread out across the large room, as if Griffin had just stepped out for a minute and would be returning soon.
Since we were young kids we’d had countless sleepovers here. Always the five of us. The whole crew.
We sat with our backs against the wall, low in a corner, where we were likely concealed from whatever cameras the room hid.
Layla leaned her head on my shoulder and said aloud, “Pull up that vid I sent you last night. It’s fucking hilarious.
The orangutan drives a golf cart like a fuckin’ boss while he’s playing with his dick and flippin’ off his caretakers, who’re chasing after him the whole time.
It’s the best, and I know I could use a laugh. ”
“Me too,” I said on cue. “Def me too.”
“You got it.” Hunt pulled up the video on the laptop he cradled across his legs. It would play in the background as a decoy while he walked us through our parents’ secret files.
For hours, he’d been typing away in a flurry of keystrokes. After he and Griffin had busted through our not-parents’ security when we’d discovered the secret lair in my house, they’d beefed up their defenses.
While Hunt hacked, the rest of us did our best to pretend we weren’t about to jump out of our skins.
It had been one thing to wait a few days since the race under the assumption that Magnum and our parents would unveil a healed and resurrected Griffin—ta-da!
It was quite another to wait after realizing we’d been dolts for assuming Magnum and our parents would have Griffin’s back, if for nothing more than he was one of their precious, irreplaceable experiments.
We knew Magnum was testing the limits of our immortality. Maybe being blown to fiery bits exceeded those limits. Maybe we’d been wasting time while sitting on our hands, time Griffin didn’t have.
Hunt’s industrious hacking seemed endless. But then—he broke through.
He stopped just before unleashing the mother lode so we could do it together.
Always together.
Forever together.
The grunting of an ape flared to life through the laptop’s speakers, though I saw no sign of him, his golf cart, or his agile fingers. A black background with strings of code layered across it covered the screen.
Hunt asked us.
Come on, Griff. Be alive. You’ve gotta be alive.
I said into our private chat after Brady and Layla had already agreed.
With his finger poised above the enter button, Hunt sucked in a ragged inhale, another, and yet a third before he finally tapped that command.
The black screen vanished, instantly replaced by a bland desktop with a workflow neatly organized atop it that appeared entirely ordinary for a team of eager-beaver scientists, except for the folders that bore our names in big, bold letters.
I blinked at the blatant evidence of our parents’ betrayal while the orangutan eee-eee-eeeed off-screen. By now, I shouldn’t be surprised.
Layla said.
Brady said.
Layla said miserably.
“Isn’t he hilarious?” Layla asked aloud, making a show of pointing at the screen and laughing.
With answers about Griffin’s fate potentially mere clicks away, I didn’t have it in me to feed the ruse.
I left Brady to guffaw, amazed the twins could put on such a convincing performance when my insides were quivering.
I could literally feel my organs vibrating for the answers that could either pulverize me or release the band that hadn’t stopped cinching my heart since Clyde had erupted into arching flames.
In addition to folders labeled with our names, there were many others with scientific nomenclature. Hunt skipped those, clicking on the one labeled GRIFFIN CONWAY.
My breath snaked in with a hiss and my body froze. The master folder contained dozens of others. Hunt eventually settled on one titled ENTRY LOG.
A tense exhale hissed out while Hunt scrolled to the most recent update. My eyes jumped around the page, scanning the text without actually reading it, too desperate to get the answer I needed more than I needed my next breath.
“Oh holy fuck,” I exclaimed before dissolving into unhinged, hysterical laughter that had a few sobs mixed in there.
When I laughed, so did Layla, and together the two of us sounded like loons.
On Hunt’s other side, Brady didn’t make a sound for several seconds, entirely still.
“This video … is so fucking awesome,” Hunt breathed for the recording that was undoubtedly being made of us. His voice cracked.
We were all staring at the same string of words:
Griffin’s progress has been remarkable, beyond what we have seen previously in any of the test subjects.
His body is nearly finished reconstructing.
He received no resuscitation or aid beyond our retrieval of his parts.
It appears possibly necessary for them to be placed in close proximity for the bonding to occur.
The damage was severe. It is possible we were unable to recover every single part.
However, we did recover every piece over two inches in size.
Suggestion for further experimentation:
Will his body still be able to regenerate if it is missing some of its vital parts? Perhaps omit an internal organ required for sustained life.
T.A.D.
Brady said.
Hunt said.
Our scientist-parents signed their notes with their real initials, not the fake names they’d fed us all our lives.
Layla said.
I would, too, but I couldn’t get that out.
Brady finally laughed, loud and boisterous. Hunt’s muscles relaxed some of their tension. And Layla was speaking aloud, some stupid shit about the ape reminding her of Brady.
I was unable to register all of it. My chest cavity felt simultaneously both unbearably full and terrifyingly empty. A flood of relief warred with the fear that had scooped out my insides, that hadn’t yet released me from its vicious, clawed grip.
Griffin was alive.
He was alive.
Alive, alive, alive!
I didn’t have to be afraid any longer.
At least, not until Magnum and our faux parents pulled more shit like this—all in the name of science and the betterment of humanity. Right. Of course.
The terror of losing Griffin had chilled me to the bone. All at once, I began shivering so hard my teeth clattered together.
My friends’ heads whipped in my direction.
“OhmyGod, Joss, what’s wrong?” Layla asked aloud, wincing at her slipup.
“No-othing,” I stuttered over a vibrating jaw.
Hunt wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close to his side. “Lay, get her a blanket.”
“That-t’d be good.”
I tried to explain but couldn’t get the words out until after Layla tucked a blanket tight around me. I smiled my thanks at her.
She grunted.
Brady leaned forward to better study me.
“I …” I sucked in a steadying inhale, sank farther into the blanket and Hunt’s warmth. “It’s just … really hard to try to have fun when Griff’s gone.” Not dead. Absolutely not dead. Just temporarily gone.
“Aw,” Layla said. “I know, honey.” She never used sweet endearments. “Losing him’s been really rough on all of us.”
I added privately.
Hunt supplied with every ounce of bitterness I felt too.
“Cue up another funny vid for us, Hunt,” Layla said for our spies.
Hunt complied while Brady growled into our joint mindspace:
My shivering subsided but I continued to lean into Hunt.
Brady said.
Layla said.
Hunt said.
I said.
Brady met my eyes.
I sat up, patting Hunt’s shoulder in thanks.
The three of them stared at me, the glow of Hunt’s screen casting their faces in grim, gray light. It suited our vibe perfectly.
Layla pointed out.
Brady said.
She shrugged and frowned darkly.
Somebody howled with laughter in whatever video Hunt was playing in the background. I ground out a laugh that hurt.
Layla persisted.
Brady reminded.
Layla let her warning hang for a few heavy moments.
I cringed at the unwelcome imagery.
Layla insisted.
I said.
I sighed loudly.
she asked.
I shrugged.
Layla scoffed.
Hunt’s shoulders slumped on an exhale.
Brady suggested weakly.
Layla just blinked at him until he eventually argued,
Brady asked.
Brady nodded along.
She pinned a suddenly wide stare on Hunt.
Brady said.
I said, leaning toward the screen.
Hunt’s fingers went to work until I stopped him with a gasp. Everyone looked at me.
I pointed at a simple, seemingly innocuous set of dates.
Layla shook her head with a fierce scowl.