Chapter 33 || Serum
Jason dreamed of a time when he'd been so sick that he had been seeing things. His mother read him storybooks and stroked his forehead. He was young, so young he hadn't thought about it in a long time, had forgotten really. She stroked his forehead, and her hand felt so big. He thought monsters were dripping from the ceiling. He asked her to make them go away, and she wept.
We can't do this! she cried, and he didn't know why she couldn't get rid of the monsters. We never should have left!
His dad's voice, so good at soothing away monsters and shadows and anything else that lurked in the night, rumbled through him. Hush, Jess. It's just a fever.
She shoved him away. What if it's more than that? What if he's flagging? We don't know—
As little Jason's sobs broke off her words, she picked him up and rocked him in her arms. She sang to him and kissed him and he'd almost fallen asleep again when her whisper broke over his ears. What if he doesn't make it?
Rachel eyed the blue vial, tilting it in her hands to catch the light. It looked like watered down Gatorade. "I just drink this?"
"We can inject it, if you prefer," Muscles said, leaning back in his chair. She was sitting now too, the remains of their dinner spread on the table between them. "But I figure drinking it is just as easy."
"And bam," she said and flipped it over, liquid sloshing to the cap. "I'll be a superhero?"
Muscles snorted. "This isn't a comic book."
"Isn't it?" She leaned back in her chair, scowling.
"If it takes, you'll be able to do biologically abnormal things. You'll have abilities—superpowers, even, if that makes you happy." He shook his head at her, the same way Rachel used to shake her head at recruits who were just a little too eager, a little too enamored with their idea of what life on the streets was like. "But it doesn't make you a hero. You can get that idea out of your head right now."
Her nail tapped against the plastic. Her lips pursed. "If it takes?"
"The serum doesn't react well with everyone. You might be sick for a few days. If the Org already tested and denied you, you'll be really sick." He eyed her for a moment with surprising concern since he thought she might be a spy. "Either way, we have an infirmary here. You'll be seen to." He folded his hands. "Between you and me, kid, if you've got somewhere else to go, I'd go there. This doesn't have to be your war."
She spun the vial in her fingers again. "What about the boy I came in with?"
"They already gave it to him."
The vial plinked against the table as she sat it down. Her fingers burned cold where it had touched her. "He's unconscious. There's no way he could have recovered enough to agree—" She broke off, aghast.
"Part of how it works is by stimulating protein creation. Will help him heal faster if it takes. And it'll almost certainly take for him."
"And if it doesn't?" she pressed.
He shrugged. "Then we did what we could."
She shot to her feet. "I don't believe that for a second. The hospital had him stable or he would have been in the ER, not the ICU. What do you people want from him?"
"You're the ones that called us, and he called for a reason. You might not belong here yet, but he does." Muscles leaned back in his chair. He picked up a chip leftover from their dinner and popped it in his mouth. "I think a better question is what you wanted. If it's a normal life, kiddo, then like I said, I'm happy to drop you off in a city tomorrow."
"As if I'd leave him here with you nutjobs."
His hand flipped up in a really? type gesture. "Again. Your tact could be much more tactful."
"You're talking about his life like it doesn't mean anything!"
"I'm talking about his life like there's not a lot I can do about it. I'm fairly certain he'll survive."
"And me? If I drink your Kool-Aid?" The table thunked as she flicked right beside the vial.
"I don't kill kids." His words were suddenly cold, and the stark light in the room felt like it darkened two degrees. "You're in good health. The serum is a lot more stable than it used to be. Adolescents rarely die from it. But I'm not forcing it down your throat. The Org might, but I won't."
She swallowed, looking down at the Gatorade-thin liquid again. It almost glowed under the bare lightbulb. "Side effects?" she asked, thinking back to her long nights doing WebMD deep dives.
Muscles raised his brow. "It's changing your code on a molecular level. The whole thing is side effects."
"You know, you could just answer a question straight."
He ticked things off on his fingers. "Loss of hair and teeth, gaining hair or teeth, chronic nerve pain, light sensitivity, the ability to change reality as you know it. It's kind of a laundry list. You want me to bring you the data we have?"
She swallowed again and wished her water cup wasn't empty. "Yes, please."
He steepled his fingers and drew a breath like he was drawing in a reserve of patience. "Fine, kid. But I don't think reading about it is going to make swallowing the stuff any easier."
He pushed up and left the room.
The vial stared at her. She stared back. Maybe he was right. After all, reading WebMD had never made her worry about her patients less. And if they had to swallow something nasty, or if she had to perform a procedure that could end up doing as much harm as good—well, if it was going to save their life, better they didn't know. Right?
She sucked on her lip. Right.
She uncorked the vial.
It felt like burning up from the inside, like when Jason had run as hard as he could on a summer day and then ran harder. It felt like the water that trickled down his throat afterward, cool and swirling in his torso, spreading out to his fingers and toes. It felt like changing out of a cold, dripping wetsuit. It felt like sweating through a heavy coat. One second he was falling into a mountain creek and the next, hiking through the desert. He shivered and sweat and shook. His muscles spasmed; his flesh tremored.
And then he fell still.
Rachel's body contracted, and her head rammed against the metal back of the chair. Stars danced in her eyes, spinning around the hanging lightbulb. She shook, back arching, and slid out of the chair. It tipped and clattered to the ground, and her body spilled onto the floor.
The plastic flooring stuck against her clammy skin. She convulsed, mouth watering with the sharp chemical taste of the serum.
The door burst open. Someone cursed. "You let her take it alone?"
Muscle's response was muffled as Rachel's ear slammed against the ground. She felt like something was crawling in her, skittering beneath her skin, plucking at her nerves, dancing through her blood. Her breaths came in retching gasps.
The world jittered and swung as someone lifted her into their arms. Her head jerked into their shoulder. The doorway passed them by. A dim room with a card table passed by too, fuzzy faces looking on. She spasmed, back arching so hard a scream tore from her throat.
Someone yelled something about an infirmary. The arms carrying her laid her on a bed in a brighter room. Her leg convulsed, and a man called out as her foot connected with a body.
Hands, more than two, fell upon her, locking her in place. She twisted more now, panicked, trying to fight free, but her own body fought her harder. Something soft, like sheets, wrapped around her wrists and ankles and waist. A bit of leather intruded into her mouth, and her jaws clamped down on it.
It felt like being beat within an inch of her life, like when she'd been enlisted beneath Rafe's uncle and the real members wanted to show her what a joke she was. It felt like being curled onto her side, throwing up blood in the basement. It felt like Rafe's arms curled around her bruised body, warm—too warm. It felt like the ring of his gun, as he prowled the house above, the echo of his shots vibrating through her along with the men's screams.
It felt like crying in the nights for her father until she was hollowed out and there was nothing left to give. Empty. Broken, so broken and empty.
And then it felt like nothing.
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