Episode 9 - A Dark, Deep Place. And the Hollow Beyond.

  Chapter 90 - Operation: Cards on the Table (3)

  It’s the rattling sound of metal cups and cutlery that wakes me. I groan, rolling in my bed and make a futile attempt at wrapping my pillow over my head to make the noises go away a little longer.

  Dawn has broken. I am bored. I can smell the water and I wish to go to it. There are strange cliffs and rocky paths. I wish to climb them. Wake before I tear myself free of this burden and go to them on my own.

  I sigh into my sheets, then unwrap and sit up in ?bed. The curtains are drawn around me, giving me fleeting privacy within the confines of the trailer. The noises are so close Rhett must be just beyond; I can even hear him breathing. I swear a tiny shift in the curtain might be the back of his elbow. I wait until the curtain stills again, and with a held breath I hang off the bed, fishing a change of my long underlayers out from underneath.

  The rattling of the cutlery stops; I know he’s heard me. There seems to be a pointed pause in all movement, and then I hear him relocate down to the table. I strip quickly and change, conscious of every subtle noise I make and cringing with each.

  As I pull my socks on, I consider our deal from the previous night. It almost seems surreal. He agreed so easily. The possibility of getting to speak to my father, let alone mounting an operation to steal him, seems so far out I feel like I’ve negotiated for a fantasy in my shock at how the conversation unraveled. I’d need to get back to Aquila for a start, who knows how long that might take.

  I don’t know what I wanted him to admit once I pressed him; maybe I dared hoped for, well, I clamp those thoughts down before I let them wander places I am uncomfortable going. The reality of all ?our circumstances is that tools and weapons must be made of every resource at our disposal. It would be beyond foolishly na?ve, even for me, to expect something more.

  So he finally admitted it then; he wants me for my powers. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but not one I am unused to tasting now. Regina protected me in her own way because she wanted my powers. And he did so from the very start as well, granting me a sideways, dismissive protection that I never asked for. Like father, like son, like mother, then?

  It seems odd to reconcile with other moments: sharing food; gifts that were thoughtful, even if someone else did his shopping for him; muttered apologies at the end of exchanges that left me not sure what parts he was apologizing for. Even when I first met him, he did something I never would: he handed me that Aquila business card… I had no conduit powers on that day, well not like I do now at least. At every moment, despite his gruff exterior, he has shown ?a care for other people at Aquila first, and sometimes beyond, in his actions, without a word spoken or attention drawn to it.

  It could all just be more placation? Aster said as much, once, before all of this. ‘Keeping the firepower happy,’ he phrased it. I know they’ve been talking now at least; it might explain some of Aster’s forgiving management of me.

  I don’t want to be placated. Is it so much to just want to be… not math in an equation? I want something more than mere survival. I want lightning; I want breaking waves. I want the quiet after.

  But if I’m not math, what am I? What is left? I massage my palm, feeling my sweat-irritated skin with the thumb of my other hand. I remember how firm his handshake felt. It was different from his father’s. It was still brisk, businesslike. But he offered it so quickly, with no caveats that I had to prove my worth lest the contract be broken. His hand was warm.

  In some ways, this work is not that different from my Dad’s lab. I was the only one who could draw; I was the only one capable of repairing some of the equipment when we were left on our own in the basement. I never hated it there when I was the one who had to manage my time for all their tasks. I even went out of my way for them, staying late hours to keep their deadlines or going out of my way researching details no one asked me to find. I like problems. I like feeling useful.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I’ve liked it at Aquila sometimes. I’ve liked it with Moreau’s crew. No one asked me to start helping Carol with his herbarium samples. That’s human, isn’t it? To want community, to want to help and be wanted in turn. Not everyone needs to like me, but at least they could need me. There is a safety in those thoughts that I’ve never truly confronted. A tool so useful that no one would ever get rid of it. My version of Adrian’s traps then…

  And after I blood bond, what will my power be then?

  As I dig my thumb into the fleshy muscle beneath the first joint of my forefinger, I circle back on my thoughts. So, what then, am I to Rhett?

  Can people be more than one thing? I am impulsive, and prickly, and inclined to bite. And I can’t control my hands. I am the storm, just as much as I am the rocks below. I am Pooka, sometimes more one person between us than two. And I am also someone who wants to sleep in a room on my own, be left alone to draw, and own the occasional nice thing like a simple golden chain.

  Anyone who saw only one of those things would be leaving a part of me behind in a way I realize makes me feel desperately sad. As scared as I am of someone only seeing the bad, someone who only saw the good and not the flaws would be doing me just as much of a disservice. Rhett pragmatically confronts the good and the bad. He clashes with his parents and yet stands by their side. He is distant and cold, and armed all the time, and yet he cared for his plants every single day he was home at Aquila. Can I be a weapon, who I need to be, and… who I want to be too?

  Life is everything, the rough and the smooth - and so are people. It’s the rough I always craved in the dome, sick to death of the false veneer of chrome and beige that masked reality underneath. It wasn’t hardship, but it was never living either. The rough makes life worth living with it's contrasts. Maybe I can learn to give others some grace, too.

  I stand and pull the curtain open.

  “Breakfast?” asks Rhett, looking up from the tablet he’s reading at ?the table. His hair is in his hands, as he absentmindedly braids it. A metal pitcher is set on the table, a meal cake unwrapped and broken into pieces.

  I take a few steps forward, sitting across from him. “Do you have tea?” I ask quietly.

  He hums. “Yes, but we have nothing to heat water with. You could drink it cold, but…” the tone of disgust with which he trails off? more than makes clear his feelings about such a prospect.

  I stretch my hands and wrap them both around the metal pitcher, watching the surface of the water ripple and running the pads of my fingers across the beaten copper - probably from a life of being dropped or rattled around in trailer storage. I’ve never tried to move energy before; I’ve just taken it when I needed it.

  I concentrate on the metal, coalescing a certain understanding of what it is in my mind. As I lay my palms upon its surface I feel it draw the heat from my body on contact, my fingers growing pale as I watch. The energy capacity of the water reminds me of Carol telling me about how the temperature differences between the ocean and the land create weather. It's strange how much of the world around us is just energy. What if instead of drawing the energy into myself, I drew it through me into something I touched?

  I don’t notice the trailer cool, but the water is steaming before I can even finish my thoughts. I un-peel my hands and look at the red flush that has spread across my palms. I take a deep breath, waiting nervously to see if my communion will split open. I let it out, and take another, and feel no split. Nothing comes calling today.

  “Is Pooka…?” asks Rhett, obviously stunned, his fingers still on his braid.

  I breathe out through my teeth. I shake my head. “I just need him nearby. I need his certainty for bigger tasks. If you don’t believe you can do it, it doesn’t work. But little things I’m learning the control to do on my own.” I sit with my elbows on the table and hands spread wide as I wait for my red palms to cool. "I don't know how much of this is the blood bond, and how much is just me. But we'll never know unless you try it for yourself."

  Rhett hesitates, then slowly closes both hands around my left wrist. I don’t flinch; his touch feels warm to me, his fingers soft. He inspects my palm, then turns my hand to reveal the ugly white scarring from my blisters. I can see his own scars on the back of his knuckles on his right hand, threaded between veins. He hovers, one finger twitching as if he debates something. Then, he lets me go and I draw back from him as I am released, hiding my hands beneath the table.

  Rhett leans forward onto his hand, mouth hidden behind his curled fingers, and disappears behind his mask. I wait, and trepidation mounts as I wonder if this was a bad idea. Then he stands, pushes back his chair, and goes to his duffel bag. Crouching, he digs within.

  “I'll think about it. Have you tried sencha tea before?” he asks.