Desmond's head was still jangling with the noise of the bar as he followed her into the night, so quiet it felt as though his senses had gone dead. The last dregs fanned out past them, calling cabs or stumbling somewhere to sleep it off. The women in high heels and men in disheveled shirts paid more attention to staying on their feet than to the bartender and the girl taking him home. There were a few hours until they'd find themselves on the other side of dawn. The damp fever that was summer in New York was laying low, curled at the base of the streetlights and breathing sleeping sighs into the dark windows.
"Where-" Desmond began.
She cut him off with a gesture, eyes scanning the street. "Not here."
It was a few steps later than he identified the note in her voice as fear.
She lead him to steps that went down below the street, and spoke foreign words to the speaker's challenge. There was a buzz, and a click as the door opened.
There were others like him.
"What do you think you're doing bringing a stranger here?" a redheaded man with a British accent hissed.
"He's one of us," Lucy said. She locked the door.
"How do you know that?"
"If he wasn't, he couldn't be here."
The bare rafters of the abandoned warehouse cross-hatched above them. The few Coleman lanterns made the shadows sharp. They gathered. The walls were high and cavernous around the few of them. Most of the space was taken by the mountains of crates, boxes, and iron bars that loomed above them.
"One of who?" asked Desmond. The air had a tension of a hidden place.
"The last human beings," said a man who dropped down from the top of a crate with practiced grace. He must have been near Desmond's age, though the hunted cast to his eyes made him look older. Clay, who would show him how to climb and pull himself up where people never looked, how to accept the shock of gravity and fall unharmed. Who would show him the truths that fit together beneath the bedrock of the world.
"Don't be so dramatic," said a girl with dark hair and a clever face, but she didn't disagree. Becca, who showed him how to dive into the glow of a computer screen and coax out its secrets.
"What if you were followed?" Shaun, who told him that the world wasn't supposed to be this way, and made him realize that he'd always known.
"I made sure we weren't." Lucy, who taught him how to fight.
Desmond said, looking from one face to another, "What do you mean, human?"
That night that sat in a circle, pale by the light of the blue-white lantern, and told him that the locked-away part of him that screamed was right.
"This isn't how things are supposed to be," Lucy said, voice held low to keep from echoing off the metal walls.
"The Templars own everything," said Shaun.
"Their memos call it 'when the world turned sane,'" Becca put in. She perched on the edge of a crate, swinging her heels.
"They're in control," said Lucy.
"You mean the government?" Desmond said, baffled. "Sure they are. Ever since things changed."
"Things do not just change, Desmond," said Shaun. "Not like this."
"We still don't know exactly what they did that day," said Lucy. "Only that it...changed people, somehow. They set limits."
"Except whatever it is," said Becca, "it's the exact same thing fed into every person on earth. Same dose for everybody, no exceptions."
"Now here's the funny part." Clay gestured in quick, feral motions, "For most people, it's down to the bone. For you, it's only skin deep."
"It's the same way some people don't get poison ivy," said Becca.
"Ever wonder why you felt like you were different, Desmond?" said Clay. "It's because you are."
They told him they could resist. They told him they fought.
In that summer, Desmond's life divided. The life of before became a backdrop for the small hours that were free.
There was a night world underneath the surface of the day. It was tiny and desperate. It was what was missing.
"How many of us are there?" Desmond asked Clay when they were at the highest point of the warehouse's obstacle course, lying on their backs to catch their breath. Through the small high windows the sky was orange with dawn.
"More than you think."
Clay won each race to the top by a smaller margin each day.
"Our strength is in mobility," said Lucy as she showed him how to break a grappling hold. "We have to be able to move fast and stay out of sight."
"Power backfires," Shaun told him. "King Louis XVI was recognized and caught fleeing France because his picture was on the money."
"So you think we have a chance?"
"I didn't say that."
Desmond grew stronger. The summer turned. Sometimes everyone was there at the safehouse, sometimes fewer. Clay was always there. Sometimes training, sometimes reading and making complex notes, something talking quietly to Lucy for a long time. Desmond had never seen him sleep.
They showed him the threads that ran through history until they pulled together and wrapped the world in a net. There was an encyclopedia riddled with diagrams and perfectly measured holes.
"In the machine we are all replaceable parts," said Clay. His fingers moved at his sides like spiders. He ignored Shaun when he suggested slowing down.
Desmond learned, and he believed.
When they gathered on top of the building, the leaves that rustled beneath the streetlights were yellow and bronze, and the wind had the hint of teeth.
"They called the greatest grandmaster The Eagle," said Lucy. "He said that before you could be one of us, you had to fly."
"I'm jumping off a building because a guy a thousand years ago liked birds?" said Desmond.
"It's symbolism," Clay said, staring up at the moon. "Freedom."
"C'mon," said Becca, "You've done it plenty of times before."
"Inside, onto pads, not into bushes in a park I can barely see."
"You can see," said Clay.
"What's the worst that could happen?" said Shaun. "I mean, besides the cracked skull and broken bones, that sort of thing."
"Thanks. That helps a lot."
When Desmond stepped up to the edge they fell silent. The wind invited him.
He flew.
The hidden city was his, the balconies and the rooftops. They did things that should have been impossible. They stole secrets, and hid while footsteps passed, and were alive.
The news never mentioned them.
"We're almost there," Becca said, bathed in the glow of the screen. "It's all leading to something. If we can find out what it is they did..."
"It's always them," Clay broke in. He was staring at a sheet of code. His voice was out of key. "How do you hide from the light you see yourself by?"
Lucy put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off, whirled, and grabbed Desmond.
"Tell me I can trust you." His eyes were rimmed with white. "Can they lie for this?"
"It's okay," Desmond said. "Come on. It's okay."
When he said it, he believed it. He didn't think anyone was even looking for them. What could rouse the complacent world?
It was not long after that.
"Shouldn't you be getting home?" Lucy said. Outside the light was changing from the pink pink of dawn to full day.
"Soon as I get this done," Desmond said, giving a crate from the obstacle course a shove into a new position. "I'm trying to make things a little more interesting."
"Keep it possible," Clay said. He was doing better that day. Desmond would always remember that.
"Possible's boring." He heard steps coming down the stairs outside, that would be Becca and Shaun coming back. Clay went to the intercom to let them in.
The buzz didn't come.
One thump, then the door shattered.
Men in uniform poured in. Their faces were black visors.
They swarmed over Clay. He kicked and elbowed in their gasp, then they did something to him, and he cried out and fell limp.
Terror blanked Desmond's mind. He heard himself shouting Lucy's name, sprinting for her and grabbing her by the arm, and they ran the back way out that he'd never thought they would have to use. The uniformed men were fast. He could hear him close behind, boots tramping on the cement.
The handle was in his grasp. He yanked the door open.
Desmond nearly ran right into the huge bald man in the black suit. The one he'd seen a hundred times, standing in the back at the government announcements.
Re: Clear Skies 2/?
"Where-" Desmond began.
She cut him off with a gesture, eyes scanning the street. "Not here."
It was a few steps later than he identified the note in her voice as fear.
She lead him to steps that went down below the street, and spoke foreign words to the speaker's challenge. There was a buzz, and a click as the door opened.
There were others like him.
"What do you think you're doing bringing a stranger here?" a redheaded man with a British accent hissed.
"He's one of us," Lucy said. She locked the door.
"How do you know that?"
"If he wasn't, he couldn't be here."
The bare rafters of the abandoned warehouse cross-hatched above them. The few Coleman lanterns made the shadows sharp. They gathered. The walls were high and cavernous around the few of them. Most of the space was taken by the mountains of crates, boxes, and iron bars that loomed above them.
"One of who?" asked Desmond. The air had a tension of a hidden place.
"The last human beings," said a man who dropped down from the top of a crate with practiced grace. He must have been near Desmond's age, though the hunted cast to his eyes made him look older. Clay, who would show him how to climb and pull himself up where people never looked, how to accept the shock of gravity and fall unharmed. Who would show him the truths that fit together beneath the bedrock of the world.
"Don't be so dramatic," said a girl with dark hair and a clever face, but she didn't disagree. Becca, who showed him how to dive into the glow of a computer screen and coax out its secrets.
"What if you were followed?" Shaun, who told him that the world wasn't supposed to be this way, and made him realize that he'd always known.
"I made sure we weren't." Lucy, who taught him how to fight.
Desmond said, looking from one face to another, "What do you mean, human?"
That night that sat in a circle, pale by the light of the blue-white lantern, and told him that the locked-away part of him that screamed was right.
"This isn't how things are supposed to be," Lucy said, voice held low to keep from echoing off the metal walls.
"The Templars own everything," said Shaun.
"Their memos call it 'when the world turned sane,'" Becca put in. She perched on the edge of a crate, swinging her heels.
"They're in control," said Lucy.
"You mean the government?" Desmond said, baffled. "Sure they are. Ever since things changed."
"Things do not just change, Desmond," said Shaun. "Not like this."
"We still don't know exactly what they did that day," said Lucy. "Only that it...changed people, somehow. They set limits."
"Except whatever it is," said Becca, "it's the exact same thing fed into every person on earth. Same dose for everybody, no exceptions."
"Now here's the funny part." Clay gestured in quick, feral motions, "For most people, it's down to the bone. For you, it's only skin deep."
"It's the same way some people don't get poison ivy," said Becca.
"Ever wonder why you felt like you were different, Desmond?" said Clay. "It's because you are."
They told him they could resist. They told him they fought.
In that summer, Desmond's life divided. The life of before became a backdrop for the small hours that were free.
There was a night world underneath the surface of the day. It was tiny and desperate. It was what was missing.
"How many of us are there?" Desmond asked Clay when they were at the highest point of the warehouse's obstacle course, lying on their backs to catch their breath. Through the small high windows the sky was orange with dawn.
"More than you think."
Clay won each race to the top by a smaller margin each day.
"Our strength is in mobility," said Lucy as she showed him how to break a grappling hold. "We have to be able to move fast and stay out of sight."
"Power backfires," Shaun told him. "King Louis XVI was recognized and caught fleeing France because his picture was on the money."
"So you think we have a chance?"
"I didn't say that."
Desmond grew stronger. The summer turned. Sometimes everyone was there at the safehouse, sometimes fewer. Clay was always there. Sometimes training, sometimes reading and making complex notes, something talking quietly to Lucy for a long time. Desmond had never seen him sleep.
They showed him the threads that ran through history until they pulled together and wrapped the world in a net. There was an encyclopedia riddled with diagrams and perfectly measured holes.
"In the machine we are all replaceable parts," said Clay. His fingers moved at his sides like spiders. He ignored Shaun when he suggested slowing down.
Desmond learned, and he believed.
When they gathered on top of the building, the leaves that rustled beneath the streetlights were yellow and bronze, and the wind had the hint of teeth.
"They called the greatest grandmaster The Eagle," said Lucy. "He said that before you could be one of us, you had to fly."
"I'm jumping off a building because a guy a thousand years ago liked birds?" said Desmond.
"It's symbolism," Clay said, staring up at the moon. "Freedom."
"C'mon," said Becca, "You've done it plenty of times before."
"Inside, onto pads, not into bushes in a park I can barely see."
"You can see," said Clay.
"What's the worst that could happen?" said Shaun. "I mean, besides the cracked skull and broken bones, that sort of thing."
"Thanks. That helps a lot."
When Desmond stepped up to the edge they fell silent. The wind invited him.
He flew.
The hidden city was his, the balconies and the rooftops. They did things that should have been impossible. They stole secrets, and hid while footsteps passed, and were alive.
The news never mentioned them.
"We're almost there," Becca said, bathed in the glow of the screen. "It's all leading to something. If we can find out what it is they did..."
"It's always them," Clay broke in. He was staring at a sheet of code. His voice was out of key. "How do you hide from the light you see yourself by?"
Lucy put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off, whirled, and grabbed Desmond.
"Tell me I can trust you." His eyes were rimmed with white. "Can they lie for this?"
"It's okay," Desmond said. "Come on. It's okay."
When he said it, he believed it. He didn't think anyone was even looking for them. What could rouse the complacent world?
It was not long after that.
"Shouldn't you be getting home?" Lucy said. Outside the light was changing from the pink pink of dawn to full day.
"Soon as I get this done," Desmond said, giving a crate from the obstacle course a shove into a new position. "I'm trying to make things a little more interesting."
"Keep it possible," Clay said. He was doing better that day. Desmond would always remember that.
"Possible's boring." He heard steps coming down the stairs outside, that would be Becca and Shaun coming back. Clay went to the intercom to let them in.
The buzz didn't come.
One thump, then the door shattered.
Men in uniform poured in. Their faces were black visors.
They swarmed over Clay. He kicked and elbowed in their gasp, then they did something to him, and he cried out and fell limp.
Terror blanked Desmond's mind. He heard himself shouting Lucy's name, sprinting for her and grabbing her by the arm, and they ran the back way out that he'd never thought they would have to use. The uniformed men were fast. He could hear him close behind, boots tramping on the cement.
The handle was in his grasp. He yanked the door open.
Desmond nearly ran right into the huge bald man in the black suit. The one he'd seen a hundred times, standing in the back at the government announcements.
Something sharp stung him.