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Poison sat with his legs crossed in the middle of a bed. The dark space was illuminated only by some candles he had carefully kept for times like these. He lit a cigarette with the closest one and, as soon as he was done smoking, he closed his eyes and assumed the meditating position. He made sure that no one would disturb him for the rest of the night in Dr. D’s trailer, driving it as close to the city as he could without wasting too much gas or drawing attention too early. Outside, the stars shone brightly in a clear sky that kept no secrets. The air was fresh, and the firelight was grounding, real light, farthest from the neon chaos of the enormous BCity just a few kilometers away. Everything was perfect. He had never attempted something like this, but if ever, this was the night to do it.
He exhaled, emptying his body of air and his mind of thoughts. He held a beaded bracelet made of small mechanical scraps in his right hand, and something else in the left. Something that once belonged to Ghoul. It was one of the first things that he had left at the Letterbox, a plastic spider toy his father had given him when he was little. Poison held the toy tight, inhaling and exhaling again.
Then he started praying, and sent his mind away.
Hear me, he said in the void of his head. His voice rang loud and echoed.
Hear me.
*
Since he had been given the title of Anomaly no. 2, Ghoul had been brought into a new room. This one was more comfortable: he wasn’t tied to a bed, for one. He could roam in a small studio apartment where everything was pinned down and padded, every appliance was fake, and the only door had no handles from the inside. He was too high to notice, anyway. He spent most of the time in bed by his own will. He had no physical energy whatsoever because all his efforts were directed inside, towards keeping himself awake. He hated the idea of falling asleep and going back into that loop where he was never sure what was real, what was a memory, and what was just made up. Also, he was pretty sure the asshole in white could read his thoughts if he wanted to. They had implanted something in his right arm, a device that slowly released medication. He bet they could pump that freezing truth serum whenever they wanted as well. So, he stayed awake, and that was the most fight he could put up in his miserable, captive state.
But he was doomed to defeat, because his enemies were very patient and he was very, very tired. Increasingly so. He wasn’t sure how long had passed, if it was days or weeks or perhaps months, when his eyelids felt too heavy, and his head succumbed to the need to rest. And then he had no idea how long he stayed sleeping, dreaming or remembering things. And he felt naked and observed like his mind was being broadcast all over the city- an eventuality that could not be excluded a priori, anyway.
He slept, feeling himself more and more lost each minute that passed, each dream deeper and more real than the one before. He knew that sooner or later, he would not be able to make out what being awake truly meant.
Until one dream. He found himself dreaming about one of his first visits to the Letterbox. At the time, he had no idea how serious the desert dwellers' faith in Her was, so he participated in the ritual without giving it much thought. His father had died, and Poison had explained to Ghoul that by bestowing Her with something that connected them, they would be able to reunite one day. He gave a toy that he had kept since he was little because it grossed him and because his father had given it. He dreamed vividly, or rather, he lived that moment at the Letterbox.
He was kneeling in the sand, the sun just about to set behind him. He was alone; the others were parked some feet behind, leaving him privacy. He held the toy spider close to his heart and closed his eyes, hoping more than he had ever hoped anything that it was all real and maybe he got to hear his father’s voice again, or feel him in some other way. He did not, and when he opened his eyes again, the sun had set and it was night. Wait. It was dark, a beautiful, clear sky was above him, and he could see constellations. Well, dreams work weird, anyway. He deposited the gift in the Letterbox and stood up. But when he turned around, the Transam had left. He was alone, at night, in the middle of the desert.
Hear me.
Somewhere, far away- no, “far away” did not describe how he was hearing. The voice came from anywhere and nowhere.
Hear me.
Somehow, it now sounded closer. He closed his eyes, panicking, wishing with all himself to wake up.
Hear me, Ghoul.
He now recognized the voice. He opened his eyes.
Standing there, in this dream-desert under beautiful stars, was Poison. He had an expression Ghoul had never seen on him: it was tender, his eyes glimmering with hope. He was older than he should be in this memory; he looked like Ghoul last remembered him before watching him die in that cave. But now he was alive. And before he could help himself, Ghoul ran to hold him.
He was met only by air. Poison disappeared, and suddenly, Ghoul heard his voice behind him.
“We can’t yet,” said Poison. For a minute, Ghoul did not turn around. He could not bear looking at him without being able to feel his warmth, feel that he was real and breathing.
Poison added, without any of his usual sardonic inflections: “I miss you. And I really, really need you back.”
Ghoul felt his face flush and his hopes go up. “How? How?”
Now Ghoul began to hear, still very distant and muffled, the beeping sound of his heart rate monitor from the waking world. He gave his all to stay here, in this dream. To just focus on Poison’s voice.
“Remember the cave,” Poison said.
How could Ghoul forget? He had waited that moment for so fucking long, even if it was a lie. If that kiss was just another one of Poison’s siren songs, he would be content. He would always remember that as the moment in which things could change forever. As long as he knew, just knew, he would make peace with whatever the truth was. In the years passed in the desert with the gang, he had grown accustomed to the black box of Poison’s real thoughts. He had always been an enigma, something whose understanding was fleeting, always on the edge. Perhaps that was his beauty, what had first drawn Ghoul to him. But now, in this oneiric state where anything could happen, he needed to know. “Did…did you mean what happened in the cave?” he asked. He could not stop himself from it.
But he said, quietly: “Remember everything, Ghoul.”
Ghoul wanted to protest, he wanted to ask Poison for a fucking clear answer, for something, anything that would give him peace. But he winced in pain, as the crawling cold took hold of his body, pumping from the device in his right arm. “Fuck,” he yelled. “Don’t talk. Go. GO!” He turned around to glance at Poison one last time.
But he was already gone.
Good. Maybe they didn’t notice he was there.
*
Poison came back to himself on the bed, with his cheeks wet with tears and a pained shriek that echoed in the emptiness around. All the candles died. The connection had been cut by a brain freeze, something that made him feel exposed and vulnerable, and left him with the same sensation of being caught red-handed. The whole functioning of his brain resumed only after minutes. Thinking about it lucidly, he was sure someone had been prying in Ghoul’s dreams. Someone had put their filthy hands in Ghoul’s brain. And he was pissed.
*
When Ghoul came to with a deep gasp, he was not alone in the room. The monitor was beeping crazy fast, and the white light felt like daggers in his eyes. He had been crying in his sleep. When his vision settled, he saw the man in white sitting on a chair by his bed.
“Now,” he said, calmly. “That was an exciting dream you were having. Mind telling me about it?”
Ghoul fought all he could, but it was hopeless.
“He was there,” he heard himself say.
“Oh, he was?” The man in white came closer and observed his face. “Did you two have a chat?”
“Yes.”
“Continue.” The man’s pupils narrowed like a predator’s.
“He said…” Ghoul’s breath accelerated. The monitor beeped faster. “He said…”
“Yes. Good boy. Continue.”
“He said go fuck yourself, you stupid bald fuck.” Ghoul grinned with all his teeth, almost hysterical. He had no idea how he managed to spit out what he really wanted, but the consequence was a scorching pain kicking in his right arm that made him scream, wicked and desperate. In a split second, it felt like his arm would fall apart.
Korse retreated. “That was very rude of you,” he said, sounding overly offended. “I thought we were building a nice, collaborative relationship here.”
“Fuck.” The pain increased even more, spreading to the shoulder and dangerously towards the lung. “S-sorry, sorry” Ghoul panted through the screaming and crying, his teeth grinning and his voice broken. “It was just a dream. A stupid fucking dream.”
“There’s no such thing as a stupid dream, my dear. Now tell me,” Korse fiddled with a remote in his hand, increasing the dosage. “What did your good friend talk about?”
“Th-the cave,” Ghoul said, writhing. He felt like if he took any more pain, he would see white and never come back. “The cave, you were there, remember?!”
The pain retreated just a little. “…And?”
“And nothing else, I swear.”
“No need to swear here,” Korse said. “Focus.”
Ghoul panted and could feel his body begging for the pain to stop. His words came out of it like pouring water. “He…he needs me back,” he said. “He needs me back, remember the cave. That’s all he said. I swear.”
Finally, the liquid retreated completely, and he could breathe again. He gulped for air and then collapsed on the bed, relaxing until he could feel himself pass out from pain and exhaustion, gradually losing sight of the man in white smiling above his face. I will so fucking kill you, he thought hard as he lost consciousness, hoping that someone was still listening.
“Thank you, Frank,” Korse said. “I so appreciate honesty.”
There was a hint of excitement in Korse’s generally composed voice. Dealing with Anomalies sure was thrilling, more fun than he ever had at any job, but it was exhausting. He had no idea what he was dealing with most of the time, and it required lots of improvisation, which was not really his style. He was notorious for always being prepared. And, knowing that the red-haired prey that escaped him once would be back very soon, he really needed to prepare to the best of his abilities. Which was extremely hard, when surprises like these never stopped coming. What had just happened?! Was that some form of communication, or was Ghoul genuinely dreaming? And why did this dream stimulate him so differently than any other, if it was a normal one? Again, thrilling. Dangerous, dangerous thrills. Delicious.
He took a couple of moments staring at the passed-out kid lying in the bed. He had lost some weight in the few days he had been a guest of the Facility. His eye sockets were gaunt, and a deep green hue surrounded his eyes. His collarbones poked out of the white shirt he was wearing, and he had already lost a size in his sweats. He looked like he could break in half anytime. Despite all this, he was still able to put up a fight. Nobody in the history of the Facility had ever been able to do such a thing at even fragments of the dosage he was receiving. He should be swimming happily in rivers of memories and feelings. He would be so much better off doing it, too: Korse had been genuine when he suggested Frank would lead a normal life again. His mom was really alive, waiting for her son to be returned from the terrorists who had kidnapped him. He would have a new purpose, and a new name, a new house, a new life. This was the miracle of Battery City: you could never be too far gone for her. It would always, always welcome you back. Korse knew all about that.
Instead, some force inside the kid kept him fighting back the white room. Sometimes the fight was feeble, other times it was explosive. And for the hell of himself, Korse did not and could not understand how to crack him. How to break into him. But an anomaly was an anomaly, after all. Only a fool would get mad if conventional weapons failed.
And he was no fool, so he would have to start thinking unconventional.
*
Still a little shaken by the pain and unexpected exposure, Poison fiddled with some knobs on the radio set of the trailer. He was never good with that techie shit, but the set was old and intuitive, so he managed to reach the frequency he was looking for anyway.
“Well, I’m no doctor,” he said. The on-air signal pulsed red in the dark under his chin, giving him a haunting look. “But I can tell something’s wrong.”
The voice reverberated out of every killjoy speaker, all religiously tuned to Dr. D’s daily bulletin, which today came weirdly different. Some people looked at their radios inquisitively, some curiously. Some recognized Poison behind the grainy texture of his broadcast voice.
“Dream wildly tonight, if you dream at all. Someone’s trying to pry, and it’d be rude not to give a show.” He exaggerated every syllable, almost frantically. “And to the sweet, sweet big-man, the white shark, my dearest drac. I wonder: how does it feel to lose twelve men in one sweeping bang? I bet you liked the crispy sound of their skin as I cooked them. You should have seen them! They couldn’t BELIEVE you missed a mark! By all means, call us if you would like to reply! And now, back to some music.” He put the Gear record on, the one he brought back from Canyon’s. “This is what they heard as they went to hell. Enjoy, you filthy fucking PIG!”
He switched off the broadcast, panting in excitement. The Gear rang loudly all over the desert. People cheered and laughed; they couldn’t believe their ears. Nobody had ever provoked Battery City so openly and loudly. It was intoxicating.
In a strange, exhilarating mix of rage and excitement, Poison hit the gas and drove the hell back as fast as he could. The plan was on, and there was no coming back.
*
Still by Ghoul’s bed, Korse was snapped out of his thoughts by the beeping sound of his in-ear receiver. He accepted the message. “Mr. Korse,” a female voice said, a hint of urgency in her tone. “A-apologies for disrupting your visit, but you really must hear this. We have-“
“You have what? This better be important.”
“H-hear it yourself,” the woman said. A recording of Poison’s broadcast played back in Korse’s headpiece. As it did, the man smiled, then erupted in a huge, wild laugh.
So he really was here.
When he regained his composure, he resumed communications: “I will be heading out,” he said. “Alone.”
“But Korse, we are in a level 3-“
“You know I hate to repeat myself, Angela.”