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  "After the government passed the law that same-sex couples could legally get married and be recognized, people stopped having children. There were less children and more violence in regards to the church picketing and mugging people who they suspected supported this decision or were gay themselves," he states, licking his dry lips. "It got to the point where people were either not having kids at all or moving away because of the violence, and the people in the United States were no longer procreating the way they used to.

  "The church rallied a force and took the White House, kicking the president out and hanging him, then proclaiming that whoever supported or was gay would face Court Martial Law. Then... well, you should know the rest."

  I nod sullenly. The church set up these facilities, founded the Vigils and fought a civil war that was basically pro vs. anti-gay, and the pro-gay lost. They were all shot and their families were brought to these facilities, and scientists created the screening examination - the S.O.E. - for sexual orientation. Every pregnant mother must announce her pregnancy to the court no later than two months after conception, and three months after conception they do the S.O.E. If it's positive, she gets an abortion.

  "Hey, wait a second," I start, a thought coming to me as he turns back towards the hatch. Nine gives me an irritated look over his shoulder, and I pull my outstretched hand back slightly, making a face. "You had a shard of glass skewering your right arm not too long ago - you shouldn't be able to walk with a wound like that!"

  To prove my point, I grab the sleeve of his right arm and pull on it so that he turns to face me. His eyes are wider as he watches me, lips parted slightly as if he's surprised at my actions. He blinks, and I look to the torn, bloody sleeve of his shirt.

  "I could say the same about your shoulders and your chest," he starts with an exasperated sigh, rolling his uncanny eyes and tipping his head to the ceiling. Righting himself, he pulls his arm from my grip and pushes the sleeve up. "Gifts are offensive-defensive, you know, Quinn," here he says my name with extra emphasis, making a face that's borderline silly. I deadpan. "Our wounds heal the moment our power can be spared to care for it. You should have two gaping holes in your shoulders and your innards should be outards, yet here we are."

  He then turns back to the hatch, pulling it open and shooting me a Look.

  "Are we done here, Twenty-One Questions? Recon One will be here soon and we need to haul ass before then if we want to survive." Without waiting for a reply he hauls himself into the hatch, holding on from sliding down the dark depths for a moment longer - with a strength I didn't expect from the lanky male. "Unless you want to get taken apart piece by piece and be conscious for the process? Then by all means, stay here."

  With that said, the man lets go and he slips down into the darkness, leaving me with throbbing shoulders and a spinning mind. I watch the hatch, trying to process what just happened, but I'm brought back to reality when I hear shouts outside.

  Looking over my shoulder, I bite my lip and swear under my breath.

  Shit, this stuff sounds like something out of a bad Sci-Fi novel, not real life! I groan, and immediately bite down on the sound when I realize it can give my position away. I press a questing hand to my right shoulder, expecting blood, and come back dry except for some dried-up blood caked on my skin.

  Human experimentation, supernatural powers, quickened regenerative abilities... all I had to worry about when I got out of bed this morning (or maybe yesterday?) was burying the surfacing emotions deep inside my heart. Now... this!

  Good Lord, what the fuck?

  I hear something knock against the door, followed by yelling, and it pulls me back to the present. Turning to face the hatch, I pull it open and carefully slip in.

  The smell hits me as I'm halfway in.

  I gag, the rotting smell of human flesh so ripe it's as if I'm sniffing a month-old corpse; and putting my hand to my mouth I let go of the hatch, launching myself into the depths while I close my eyes so I can ignore the blood and the sense of weightlessness.

  Instead, I pretend I'm back with Meredith at my parents' house, in the living room, and we're fighting for the remote the way we always do. Her shouting about watching the History channel, and I wanting to watch the Discovery channel. Which, in the end, was the same thing and she always won regardless, but we'd tussle on the couch until one of us yielded.

  That morning she'd left for the hospital before the Vigils came, and I'm honestly glad she wasn't there to witness the truth. I do wish I could've said goodbye to her, though, and apologize for the shitty husband I've been.

  As I fly through that tunnel, an eternity passes in an instant. I see her pixie-like, smiling face with her slightly crooked white teeth, the dimple forming on her right cheekbone. Her bright, grass green eyes shining with a hint of rebelliousness and her blonde hair cascading around her shoulders, as soft as the first snowfall.

  With the sight of her face the guilt comes, how every time I saw her I couldn't help but feel horrible for doing this to her, for marrying her when I honestly felt no love for her except that of a friend. For using her to bury my emotions deep inside myself and force myself to love her the way she loved me. For never telling her she's beautiful even though she is and telling her I love her and never meaning it.

  For giving her my child, because I know she could never rid herself of it even when she'll find out. She was like that - too good for me.

  I feel weightless as soon as that thought graces me, and I open my eyes a crack to see bright blue sky ahead dotted with storm clouds. They widen just as I fall, but I don't fall far - I land on something somewhat soft and I go rolling, the smell of decay suddenly so much more powerful.

  Rolling to a stop with my nose pressed into the grass, I push myself onto my knees and glance around.

  Nine's crouching on his toes nearby, hands pooled between his thighs and a pale eyebrow arching over his eerie eyes.

  "Do you want to live?" He asks me as I stare at him, and sighs when I just continue staring at him. Snapping his fingers in front of my face, he scowls at me. "Hey, Eleven! Do you want to live?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I question, and here he grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. I feel a shiver crawl up my spine with sharp talons as he stands in one fluid movement and pulls me up with a hand at my throat, loose enough to allow me to breathe but tightly enough to be uncomfortable.

  "Exactly what it implies," he growls, and I realize then that having that gaze narrowed in hate at me is very unpleasant - it feels as if I'm stripped clean and he can see the darkest parts of my soul, and my immediate reaction is to try to shut him out; even though I can't. My defenses are stripped clean with that uncanny glare. "Out here, only the strong survive and we have to fucking fight to stay alive. Running isn't a game, and if you lose, you die; if you kneel by the dead here and wait for Recon One, you'll be dead within the hour; I promise you. So, I'll ask one last time, Eleven, and you'd better fucking answer right."

  We're nose-to-nose by now, so much that his eyes almost blur out of focus, and I can feel his breath on my skin. For a man who's been in captivity for God knows how long, he's frightening yet surprisingly alive.

  "Are you strong enough to survive?" He asks, and I take in a breath to reply, but he interrupts. "Do you want to live? I don't give a shit about whatever bullshit excuse you make for yourself to fight, but you'll never survive out here alone. I need you, and you need me, and it's the only fucking way to survive."

  I wait until he's finished, frowning. Then I speak.

  "What's your name, Nine?" I counter, and he pulls his head back a second, blinking in confusion. There's that innocent look again, gone in an instant. "Your real name."

  He laughs once breathlessly, grinning without humour

  "Jaeger," he offers, letting go of my throat and stepping back. "Sebastian Jaeger - looks like we'll be partners for a bit."

  "Quinn Terry," I say, and with that said he turns his back to me and pulls out towards the forest surr
ounding the pristine white facility we just rocketed out of. I smell like decay and this feels like a bad dream, but I turn my back to the pile of corpses I rolled off and decide it's time to Not Think.

  I follow.

  May the Odds be Ever in your Favour

  SEBASTIAN

  The odds aren't in my favour at all.

  It smells like ozone as I lead the way through the copse of trees - a thick, coppery smell that's sort of orange-brown; I apologize in advance for that, by the way. I tend to smell in colours - and there's a distant rumbling in my ears that promises a hell of a storm. I can also hear the dogs as they're let loose, no doubt after finding out that Eleven and I are on the run.

  Then there's him.

  The sound he makes as he follows behind me reminds me of that saying about an elephant in a China shop, and I resist the urge to thrash the man - after all, the N.O.'s not very famous for letting its citizens hone their skills in stealthier arts.

  It feels liberating to finally have the dirt beneath my bare feet, though, the smell of the rich substance almost overpowering the promise of rain and lightning in the air. My lungs are protesting almost painfully at the exertion that I haven't done in ages since I came here and my legs are wobbly with the lack of exercise, but I push onwards. We've got a long way to go before we're home free, and our options are rather limited.

  First off, though, we need to find a change of clothes and a place to wait out the storm where the dogs won't sniff us out - luckily, though, the rain will wash out our tracks and should give them a harder time to locate us, but they'll be expecting us to go south since Mexico is closer than Canada.

  So we'll have to head north. It's going to be a hell of a long run, especially with this stealthy asshole in tow, but if we get the right equipment and find the right place to suit up, we should be okay...

  I stop in my tracks as my vision blurs, the trees bending out of shape and trying to create new ones out of a red haze in my vision. Quinn bumps into me when I do so and I stumble to my knees, holding my head in my hands and gritting my teeth, eyes snapped shut as I press my forehead against my knees.

  Not here, I plea, squinting up to the trees as my companion kneels beside me, worried. They dance in the haze, and a jolt of pain shoots up through my skull. Wait until later, for the love of God.

  I take deep breaths, ignoring Eleven's questions and pushing myself back to my feet - albeit shakily. After another moment the world rights itself again, and as I stand there breathing carefully I realize how close I was to collapsing.

  Oh.

  So I turn to look at the man over my shoulder, and he flinches slightly as our eyes meet.

  "We'll go north," I inform him, and I notice the protest about to leave his lips, so I beat him to it. "They'll expect us to go to Mexico since it's closer, so we need to take the long road home. I know of a small mountain lodge not far from here where we can get some supplies, and there should be a ranger's station not too far from there. The station isn't in use this time of year and the store's closed for the season, so we can stay there to wait out the storm."

  "What storm?" he questions, frowning. When he frowns, he bites his lower lip slightly and his right eyebrow falls a bit lower than his left. He watches me with those hazel eyes that have changed colours at least three times now.

  "If you'd stop knocking into trees as if you wanted to make out with them, you'd realize that it smells like rain and ozone," I tell him, rapping him lightly on the forehead with a knuckle. He rubs the spot, scowling now. "It's going to be a big one; the electricity in the air is making the hairs on my arms stand on end."

  He nods after a moment, probably trusting my judgement enough to let me call the shots, so I lead the way through the trees once more with him on my heels. Directions come more easily to me than time does - now that I think about it, that's quite ironic - and I rely on my inner compass to head north-northwest, the wind dying around us as the storm surges from the west.

  The storm hits as we're trekking through the forest.

  It starts out small and is easily ignored; the rain falls in slight bursts, small droplets that aren't enough to get us wet. It makes the rocks and dirt we travel on slick and we both fall more than once, Quinn hugging his bare arms against the chill of the water. He doesn't complain, though, which is honestly a surprise - he strikes me as a pampered man, one used to getting his way and who never had to fight for anything in his life.

  Sometimes it's refreshing to be wrong.

  Just as I can dimly make out the lodge sitting against the base of the hill we've been scaling for the better part of half an hour, I look behind us to tell Eleven of this and notice the wall of water quickly making its way towards us, and I blanch. He looks behind him to see what I saw, and swears vividly in French.

  Both of us shift it into fifth gear as we sprint down the slick grassy hill, dodging trees and rocks as we skid and slip down the slope. Branches slap me as I pass and I fall down on my ass hard enough to bruise, but I get back up with Quinn pulling me up by my arm as he passes me, the two of us pulling each other along.

  Normally it'd be a sight to behold; rain falling so quickly and so uniformly that it creates a sheer wall as it approaches, cascading over you in an instant - but not now, when we're caught out in the open with Recon One on our ass, exhausted from the time spent on the run already as well as having used our gifts - not to mention Quinn at risk of catching a cold thanks to being minus one shirt and I forming a painful stitch in my side and my legs threatening to collapse at any moment.

  The rain attacks us as we reach the valley, merciless tendrils of ice hitting us like needles. I suck in a breath and swear as loudly as I can, the sound drowned out by the thunder that peels and the lightning that cracks on the mountain not far from us. I'm stumbling and faltering in my steps, my legs like lead, and Quinn pulls me along by the arm as much as he can.

  It's by no means a relief when we reach the lodge, the door locked and a sign clearly stating that it's closed for the season. I swear breathlessly, pushing past the man jiggling the doorknob uselessly and pressing my hands to the metal. My clothes are soaked and clinging to me, but I manage to dredge up an ounce of power and manipulate time once more.

  It's not something I can explain; it's kind of like imagining something happening, seeing it in my mind and pushing with my mind, like trying to move a rock. You know where you want it so you push against it until it shifts.

  The deadbolt clicks and the door opens, giving us sweet shelter from the hellfire raining from the sky. It's not as warm as I'd want it to be, but I think I read somewhere once that a drastic change from cold to hot is a sure-fire way of getting a cold.

  Pressing my back to the door once Quinn is inside and locking it once more, I slip to the floor with a grateful sigh, my lungs threatening to collapse and my legs no longer able to support me. Thunder peels outside like some sort of animalistic groan, denied its prey.

  Eleven's swearing in French, a blue-streak that hasn't stopped for a good ten seconds as he collapses onto his ass on the wooden floor, leaning back on a hand to stare up at the ceiling and inhale greedy lungfuls of air.

  I can't help it: I laugh.

  The hazel-eyed man looks at me as if I've gone crazy - and in a sense, I believe I have - while I double over breathlessly, the stitch in my side protesting loudly as I clutch my sides. The sound is foreign from my vocal chords, having been a prisoner in the facility for about four years and given no reasons to laugh, but as I laugh I feel... a little more alive. A little more like me.

  Then, to my surprise, he joins in. He scoffs as he looks away, but his laughter joins mine until we're both in relieved hysterics.

  When it dies down we look at each other, sitting on the ground and lacking the energy to stand while the thunder booms with each lightning strike cracking to the earth. The wind is howling and the rain is beating on the roof like jackhammers, but for now we're safe. We're out of the storm that's nothing short of what blew throug
h the facility scant hours ago.

  Finally I glance around, taking in the dusty atmosphere.

  Quinn gets to his feet in search of a light source, the power cut for the season, so as he rummages for something to light the room I pull myself to my feet with the help of a nearby potted plant - fake, of course - and grip it tightly while my legs shake, unwilling to obey.

  He comes back with one of those old-time gas lamps, a flame flickering as he stops nearby, tilting his head to the side curiously as he watches me struggle to stand. Without saying a word he pulls my right arm over his shoulders, holding my wrist with his right hand and giving me the lamp to hold in my left so he can hold the waistband of my pants with his.

  "How did you know this was here?" he asks instead, still standing in the entry as we look at what's illuminated in the pool of light offered by the lamp. Everything is brought into sharp lines of orange light - the couches and the coffee table, the mounted antlers on the wall, the fireplace (I tell him it'd be a bad idea to get that burning, and he says we should either close the blinds or steer clear of the windows, too) and the front desk. I gesture with my chin to an open archway leading further into the lodge that smells like dust and still air, sneezing. He laughs beside me.

  "My parents and I came here during the fall to hike," I inform him, frowning. He nods as we begin walking through the lodge. "They have a gorgeous trail that goes north-northwest, stretching to another outpost. It takes roughly three days to travel and there are lots of camping sites along the way and little lodges to sleep in, too. I'd asked to come for my eighteenth birthday."

  He doesn't say anything for a moment as we walk down the hallway, the lobby behind us as we pass a scattering of doors left ajar, leading into bedrooms.