Exiled: Kenly's Story (A Talented Novel) (5 page)

Ordinarily, I savored that freedom; it was
the only time I felt truly safe. Tonight, though, I wasn’t just
using my Created Talent to take a leisurely stroll through the
park, browse some high-end boutique that I had no business
visiting, or eavesdrop on whispered conversations. Tonight I was
using my abilities to ensure I wasn’t followed. As added
precaution, I cut up alleyways, darted between random cabs idling
next to curbs, and took an extremely roundabout route. When I
finally dared to stop, to check out my pursuers, I was under the
cover of a crop of trees across the street from my hostel.

No one was there. No one was following
me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and nearly
laughed at my ridiculously furtive behavior. Willa’s hysteria was
apparently contagious. Seriously, using evasive maneuvers to lose a
tail? Totally unnecessary. Ghost Girl and Spikey-Hair were
Talented, so Platinum eyes probably was, too. But it was obvious
they didn’t work for UNITED. Like TOXIC, UNITED took care of its
own. No agent of theirs would be dressed in worn out jeans or
tread-bare sneakers.

Just because you’re
paranoid, doesn’t mean no one is after you
,
a nagging voice reminded me.

It was true. Someone was after me. Just, not
the kids I was currently running from. Hopefully.

When UNITED agents attacked Washington D.C.,
they’d taken half of TOXIC prisoner. Now, they were hunting down
the rest of us. Thoughts of their agents, and the battle that made
me a fugitive, were never far from my mind. These thoughts, I told
myself, were what caused me to overreact tonight. Willa’s vague
warning aside, the teenagers in the bar were no threat to me. I was
just jumpy and tense, and needed a good night’s sleep.

Shaking off the lingering feeling of spying
eyes, I dropped the invisibility shield and strode into the open.
When no previously unseen attackers materialized, I was further
reassured that I was in the clear. For now.

I pushed open a door with peeling blue
paint, and entered the dimly lit lobby of Ernie’s Hideaway. Calling
it a reception area would have been extremely generous; it was
nothing more than an alcove between the front door and the
stairwell. The reception desk—scratched, scraped, and probably
purchased third-hand—sat back in a slight nook. An oriental rug
covered the tile flooring from wall to wall. The edges of the
carpet hinted at its previous beauty, where the red and cream
strands were still vivid and plush. But countless years and feet
traipsing over the material had left the center scuffed and faded
to a muddy tan with just a hint of pink.

As I passed, the night clerk gave a
half-hearted wave without looking up from her tablet comm screen,
engrossed in the latest time-wasting gamelet. I returned the
gesture on my way to the stairs leading to the upper floors. All in
all, the hostel wasn’t much, but it had served me well thus
far.

Few guests stayed more than a night or two
at Ernie’s Hideaway. At first, I’d been kind of freaked out by the
ever-changing guests. It meant exposing my presence to countless
people. Plus, I’d wondered if I should be moving around more, if
staying in one place for so long would raise eyebrows. Still, with
so much change in my life, I liked having a constant. Until
tonight, I’d had two: the Hideaway and the Flying Giraffe. Now that
Willa didn’t want me in her grandfather’s bar anymore, for whatever
reason, I was left with just the Hideaway.

The room I rented held six bunks, two beds
apiece. Each wall had three, lined up end-to-end, against it. Mine
was the bottom bunk on the left, closest to the door. It had been a
tossup between that one and one by the window. All of the data had
come down to one thing: in the event I needed to make a hasty exit,
escaping through the third-story window wasn’t a viable option. I’d
done the math, and calculated the odds of surviving the drop
without broken bones at seven percent. Not good.

When I entered, the room was empty. Only one
other bed was made, meaning that I had one roommate for the night,
but that he or she wasn’t here. Good. I wanted to be alone.

I plopped down on the thin mattress,
bedsprings squeaking faintly, and dug out the bootleg communicator
I’d spent a large portion of my limited money to acquire. At the
time, I’d waffled over the purchase. It wasn’t like I could use it
to send messages to people. Even if the communicator was
untraceable, the same could not be said for anyone I wanted to
comm. But the device had been useful for keeping up-to-date on
world events. For instance: UNITED’s manhunt for the Created.

Switching the communicator on, I waited
while it found a signal. Once it was up and running, the main
screen filled with tickers scrolling news on everything from
fashion to the latest tech devices. I missed having nice clothes
and gadgets, and sometimes scanned these sites, telling myself I
needed to be up-to-date on everything when I finally made it back
home. I knew in both my heart and my mind that returning home was
not in the foreseeable future. That didn’t stop the intense longing
and incurable homesickness that were my constant companions. For
now, I searched for reports about the situation in New York,
desperate for news on Alana’s fate. It wasn’t hard to find. Every
outlet was carrying the story.

In Manhattan it was now
midday. The standoff was going into its fifth hour.
Time is running out,
I
thought. UNITED’s patience would likely be wearing thin. It was
only a matter of time before they ceased negotiation attempts and
took the building by force.

Sure enough, the
ticker—still running along the bottom of the screen as I read the
article—flashed red a moment later. My hand was shaking as I used
my thumb to tap the screen and bring up the news alert.
Please let her be okay
, I
prayed.
Please let her get
away.

UPDATE: UNITED agents have secured the
Embassy in Manhattan. All perpetrators, a group of Created who were
holding the building, have been captured. At this time, several
hostages are being treated for minor injuries. No fatalities have
been reported.

Details on the mechanics of the raid were
sketchy, but the end result was all that mattered. The hostages
were safe. The rebels had been caught, and were now being taken to
an undisclosed location. When the ticker flashed red again, I took
a deep breath and tapped to see the new development.

A press conference was about to start, live
from the scene. The camera’s view was now much tighter, and showed
only the front entrance of the UNITED Embassy and the stairs
leading up to the revolving glass doors. People milled around the
bottom of the steps, speaking quietly. A podium had been dragged
outside, directly in front of the large glass and chrome doors. The
front of the lectern was emblazoned with a seal that the Director
had shown us countless times. UNITED’s crest.

As if on cue, the crowd silenced. The front
door open, and a woman in a tailored black suit strode confidently
across the landing to her place behind the podium. There was no
fidgeting with her hair—the tight chignon had not a strand out of
place—no clearing of her throat, nor a last-second glance through
her notes. Without wasting a single moment, she launched into her
statement. Speaking clearly and concisely, as if reading the
weather, Councilwoman Victoria Walburton decreed the fate of my
best friend.

First she expressed her
sympathy for the families of those held by Alana and the others.
Walburton spoke of the hostages’ bravery and heroics, as if they’d
been dealing with true terrorists and not a bunch of teenagers. I
shook my head in disgust. It wasn’t like Alana or her cohorts had
killed anyone. They’d probably just told them all to stay at their
desks and not move. Still, the Councilwoman droned on and on about
what a terrible ordeal the workers had been put through, how their
lives had been in danger, and how luck had been on the hostages’
side that day, protecting them from the
terrorists,
intent on destroying the
powerful UNITED. What a bunch of B.S.

Though her words were meant to elicit an
emotional reaction from the viewers, her voice lacked any true
empathy. From everything I knew of Walburton, she was entirely
uncaring, and unfeeling. Her bottom line was keeping governments
happy, not watching out for the Talents she was supposed to be
protecting.

“
Thanks to the courage and
hard work of UNITED’s Manhattan Team 2, all of the culprits have
been apprehended. Not a single one is at-large. And this I promise
you: they will be dealt with both swiftly and justly.”

My heart sank. It was political jargon for
executed. My earlier anger over Alana’s stupidity turned to deep
heartache. She was my best friend. Only she and Francie had made my
time at the McDonough School fun. Only the two of them had remained
after my supposed-mentor became a traitor. The three of us had
banded together when the world began falling apart, promising to
stay strong, do the right thing and, above all, watch out for each
other. But I wasn’t there for Alana.

Truth be told, after I’d gotten over my
original reluctance, I’d spent the last weeks obsessively checking
for both her and Francie’s names among the casualties from the
battle in D.C. Neither one had shown up in the long lists online
and in the world newspapers. After the first few days of searching,
I’d allowed myself to hope. I’d hoped they were alive, hoped they
were hiding, like me, and that someday soon we would be reunited.
At this point, it might’ve been better if Alana’s name had been
listed, after all. I couldn’t imagine what was happening to her now
that UNITED had her in their clutches.

As if my thought had spanned the distance,
Walburton finished her sentence—she was still talking about how
great the UNITED agents were, shamelessly self-promoting—and nodded
to someone off-camera. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes
bugged out of my face. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

A line of ten slumped forms
emerged from the double doors of the building.
Nice tactical move
, I thought
grudgingly. Though my heart was breaking, my brain couldn’t help
but acknowledge Walburton’s genius. Showing the culprits yielding
to the Councilwoman and her UNITED operatives reinforced to the
viewers that the situation was under control. Parading the rebels
for the camera also sent a message to anyone else with similar
ideas. The meaning transcended the ocean that separated our
physical locations: Do not try it. You will not succeed.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn’t help
myself as they spilled down my cheeks. I gently touched a face on
the screen, of a girl near the center of the line. The Councilwoman
droned on about her plans, but I no longer heard her words. The
girl’s chin rested on her chest, as though her neck could no longer
support the weight of her head. Her lithe body drooped as if it had
wilted entirely. Without the UNITED agents standing on either side
of her, their arms looped through hers, the girl probably would’ve
collapsed completely. But worse than all of that…when she lifted
her head just slightly and opened her eyes, I saw a girl whose
spirit had been crushed. The beautiful strong warrior who’d been my
best friend, she’d been broken. I couldn’t stop the sob rising up
in my throat, and I shook as tears racked my body.

I couldn’t stand seeing her like that. Alana
may have gone about it all wrong, but she’d had the best, truest of
intentions. She’d been trying to honor the Director, the man who’d
given us a home and a purpose, who’d supported us, and defended all
Talents. He’d died trying to fulfill the vision he’d had for the
future. Where everyone who wanted to could be Talented. A world
where we were no longer freaks but embraced and applauded for our
special gifts. And now Alana and the rest of the Created on stage
would be giving their lives for that vision, as well. It was noble,
but I longed to reach through the screen and pull Alana through to
me, to save her. Watching the scene in New York, one thing was
painfully clear: they wouldn’t be saving themselves.

In addition to the two UNITED agents
supporting my best friend, there were two more standing directly
behind her. The same formation was being used for each of the other
culprits. Considering Alana and the rest were obviously heavily
drugged, four agents per person was excessive. This was all for
show, with carefully calculated implications. It conveyed to the
public that the Created—we, I was one of them, this message was
about me as well—were highly dangerous, something to be feared. And
that UNITED was strong, capable, and in control. Even if they
hadn’t been drugged, even with their Created Talents, the prisoners
didn’t have a prayer of overpowering their captors.

I focused on Walburton again—my heart
couldn’t bear watching Alana in that condition for another
moment—in case she passed along potentially useful information. The
Councilwoman was assuring the world that UNITED would continue to
stand guard against Created. The camera view suddenly panned out,
ostensibly to get all of the detainees in the frame. Over to the
side, previously off-screen, a figure caught my eye.

She was dressed in head-to-toe black, in the
same garb I’d worn to train for my Hunters exam. An Adapti-suit.
The other guards on-stage were dressed in similar suits, but theirs
were gray with the UNITED emblem on the chest. The girl’s chestnut
curls were tied back in a high ponytail. Her posture was rigid and
alert. Assessing eyes scanned the area for signs of new threats.
She was poised as if expecting a hovercraft to appear from thin air
and open fire, or a regiment of TOXIC operatives to explode from an
alleyway for a rescue attempt. Anger and betrayal flared through me
in an instant, white hot and ready to explode.