"We can't have her here. Are you insane?"
"She's hardly more than a child, Beade."
"She's at least twenty. But let's say she's not. She's still a tall, lethal child who'd kill you without a second thought. Are we actually debating this?"
The sound rises like it's through water. Everything hurts, but it's distant and dull. My head throbs in time with my pulse, and my side burns somewhere far away. My limbs feel heavy, packed with cotton. My thoughts lag behind themselves. I've been drugged. There's a low electric hum and the faint rattle of metal. I can hear. That shouldn't be possible, but it is. Everything is muffled, it's faint, but it's there.
"Because if we throw her out there to die, we're no better than them."
The man's voice is low and clear. I risk a glance. The lights are harsh, and the room is worse. Bare, except for a few gurneys and salvaged medical equipment. Faded tapestries hang limp on the solid stone walls in a failed attempt to soften the gloom. It is bitterly cold, the air heavy and stale the way it only gets underground. No windows, no natural light, and the stone walls bear the rough marks of tools, not erosion. They've carved this place into the mountain itself.
Furthest from me are three figures clustered together, too absorbed in their argument to notice I'm awake. I stay still, keeping my breath shallow, the kind of breathing you learn in combat drills, when staying alive means not being seen.
I have been seen, though, I realize. Worse, I've been captured.
Shit.
I'm not supposed to be captured. Centre agents don't get captured. We neutralize and endure until retrieval. Every Influenced life is sacred. None left behind.
Except for me, apparently. I was left behind.
Not only left behind, but imprisoned, sedated, and now stuck listening to subhuman monsters debate my right to life. I try to shift, but my wrists are strapped down with thick leather. Ankles, too. I test the give and get nothing. Whoever tied the restraints didn't cut corners.
Good. I wouldn't have, either.
"How long before she's awake?"
I shut my eyes, forcing my body to mimic the dull slack of unconsciousness as three sets of footsteps move in my direction. They come to a stop right in front of me, and there’s a drawn-out minute of tense silence. The only sound is a faint, mechanical hum.
"You can open your eyes,” a deep, resonant voice finally says. I ignore him, and I hear a sigh. "Finn's checked your ears. Your right eardrum is perforated, and healing, but otherwise fine."
Fine, then. I blink my eyes open. The three figures stand over me. Two men, and a woman about my age. The older man is maybe in his mid-forties and bald, with deep brown skin lined with wear and a short, closely cropped beard. His grey eyes are sharp and alert, and there's a steadiness in how he stands that makes it clear he's used to being listened to.
The boy behind him is a few years older than me at best, tall but well-muscled, with blonde hair, warm brown eyes, and a calm that says he's accustomed to doing the hard thing without complaint.
And then there's her. Beade, the older man called her. She's short, with pale blonde curls pulled into a deliberately messy ponytail. The Centre never tolerated that kind of presentation. Even if she wasn't Blank, we'd never be friends. She's pretty, and I can tell by the way she stands, by her meticulously unstyled hair, that she knows it. The pretty ones always do, like it's an accomplishment, as if being born with symmetrical features makes you inherently better.
Her glare is fixed on me, eyes locked on my throat like she's trying to crush it by will alone. It's personal, as if my very existence offends her. I meet her stare head-on and hold it.
"That's better," the man says. "Do you want some water?" His voice is measured, polite. As if we're at a bus stop and I'm not his drugged, restrained prisoner.
Behind him, Beade groans. "Cabel, we barely have enough to get by as it is. We can't waste our resources on her."
She's insufferable, but I don't disagree. If they want to stop wasting resources, letting me go would suffice. I think we just might have a different idea of whether I should be dead or alive when they do.
"Beade, just go." The boy's voice cracks in exasperation.
"No," she snaps. "I'm not leaving you alone with this Centre lapdog."
"Beatrice."
That one comes from Cabel. She glares at him, then spins on her heel and stomps to the other side of the room to lean theatrically against the wall. I look back at the two men. They don't bother hiding their faces. They say each other's names like it doesn't matter if I hear them. The message is clear: I'm not going to live long enough to report this.
I clock the details as fast as I can, force my brain to memorize voices, posture, expressions, before I realize how futile it all is. If I'm already marked as disposable, no amount of memorization is going to shift the odds in my favor.
"I asked you a question."
I hate the authority in Cabel's voice. As if someone like him has any right to speak to me that way. I want to laugh. I want to bare my teeth. I don't answer to rebels. My upper lip curls into a sneer.
"Blanks."
I spit the slur with all the force I can muster. It’s the kind of word they pretend to ignore, while actually caring far too much. It's what the Centre calls the Non-Influenced. The ones who were born empty and stayed that way. Weak. Vulnerable. The Centre taught us that Influenced are what evolution intended, that our abilities are the future. Everyone else is just…background noise.
The reaction is instant. Beade's voice rises an octave as she lunges forward, gun drawn with a steady hand and already trained on my head. I don't flinch. Let her shoot. I'd welcome it.
"Say it again!" she snaps, her body coiled like a spring. "Go on. Tell me again she's harmless, Finn.”
"I never said—"
"Gun down. That's an order!"
Cabel's hand is already out, waiting. Beade hesitates, lips tight with fury, before finally, reluctantly, placing the gun into it. He takes it and steps toward me. I keep my eyes locked on his. If this is the moment, I will deny him the satisfaction of seeing my fear. The Centre prepared us for death in every form. I know how to die with dignity.
I'm less skilled at managing my anger. I want to scream, to grab something and smash it against the wall. I reach for my Influence, for the instinctive, familiar surge of power beneath my skin—
and find nothing.
Only flat, suffocating quiet.
My breath catches. Why can’t I reach it?
Nothing makes sense. The sedation could dull my reflexes, slow my thoughts, but it's never touched my Influence before. No drug has. So what exactly have they done to me? My Influence isn't muscular. It isn't chemical. It's woven into my nervous system, as involuntary as a heartbeat. I should be able to feel the electromagnetic field of every piece of equipment in this room, every current running through every wire in these walls. Instead there's nothing. As if the part of me that knows how to feel the world has been carved out. My hands curl into fists against the leather of my restraints.
The Blanks around me are ignorant, or indifferent, to my suffering. Cabel crosses his arms, and Beade is still sulking in the corner. Finn reaches carefully for my wrist like I'm something fragile.
"You're okay," he says. “I'm just going to check your bandages.” I rip my arm as far from his fingers as the strap will allow. I don't care if I look feral. He's not one of mine. He doesn't get to touch me.
Beade laughs bitterly. "This is what I mean! You save her life and she treats you like dirt. She killed Ashe and Wren and you still pity her?"
"She's scared!" Finn snaps, red in the face now. "She doesn't know where she is or who she can trust. Back off, for once."
That pisses me off more than the sedation, restraints, or capture. Scared? I glare at the pulse thrumming in his neck, and the soft, unprotected line of his throat. If my hands were free, I'd show him exactly how 'scared' I am. I'd cut that pretty performance of empathy right out of him. Blanks don't feel for people like me. They can't.
"Enough."
The force of the word silences the room. I see Beade freeze mid-breath and Finn step back as if the sound pulled him out of motion.
"She's not scared," Cabel says. "She's a soldier. She knows exactly what she needs to know." No one argues. "Finn, sit her up."
As Finn tilts the gurney, a wave of nausea surges through me. I bite my cheek until I taste copper. "Sorry," he mutters. "Pain meds."
I don't respond. I'm too busy focusing on breathing. By the time I’ve regained my composure, Cabel is already unclipping one of my wrist restraints. He presses a cup of water into my palm.
"This will help."
I stare at the cup, then open my fingers and let it fall. Water splashes across the stone. I don't want their help. I don't want their comfort, I don't want their mercy and I sure as hell don't want their damn water.
The silence breaks with a sound like rolling thunder. It's low, resonant, and—I realize with a jolt of pure fury—entirely genuine.
Cabel is laughing at me. As if I'm not the thing he should fear most in this room, restraints or not.
"Beade," he commands. "Have a glass."
I can tell she wants to refuse, but something in his tone stops her cold, so she grits her teeth and grabs the cup like a petulant child. I almost smirk. The Centre would've crushed that attitude on day one.
Beade lifts the glass and drinks, petty and furious, too fast like she's proving something. Water spills down her chin. When she's finished, she shoves the empty cup back toward Cabel.
"Happy now?" she spits.
He turns to me expectantly, and I understand the message. The water's not poisoned. He wants to see what I do next, whether I bend. He won't get a damn thing from me.
But thirst claws at me, and my lips are painfully dry and cracked. When Finn holds out a new cup, my hand moves without permission. This isn't surrender, I tell myself. It's survival. Fuel. I won’t be able to think clearly if dehydration is scrambling my brain.
The first sip is unequivocal relief, a tactical necessity I hate myself for enjoying. I force myself to drink slowly, maintaining what dignity I can. They're barbarians, but I won't give them the satisfaction of watching me gulp it down like a desperate animal. When I’ve finished, I hand the empty cup to Finn.
"I can't see," I say, and confusion flashes across Finn's face.
"No, I checked her eyes," he says quickly, glancing at Cabel for reassurance. "They're fine. There's no trauma—"
"My eyes are fine,” I spit, incensed at their apparent doctors inability to understand. “I am telling you I can't see," I repeat, louder now.
Cabel narrows his eyes, but I’m given nothing else by way of response.
"I can't see," I say for a third time. My voice tears at my throat. My hand grips the edge of the gurney, knuckles going white. "What did you do?"
The desperation slips through before I can cage it. It's too fast, too raw. I hate the way it sounds in my own ears. I hate how it makes Cabel's face change. He softens, and that somehow makes it worse.
"We didn't," he says gently. Too gently. The calm, careful tone of someone speaking to an injured animal, not a soldier. "Finneas found you unconscious. You were bleeding out. He stabilized you, treated your wounds."
His hand lifts, and for a moment, I think he might strangle me. Instead, I feel a gentle touch at my throat, and recoil.
"You've been blocked."
Three words, and the last bit of control I have is irrevocably shattered.
It's that thing I've been trying to ignore since I woke up, the way the world is wrong, flattened into something small and two-dimensional. How there are no waves, no hum, no mental noise except my own.
Blocked. Even thinking the word sickens me. My Influence is gone. That kind of tech belongs to the Centre. Military-grade, restricted access. A last resort for when an Influenced goes rogue, a whispered threat no one believes will happen to them. Technology no Blank should be able to get their hands on.
Yet here I am, offline and powerless, trapped in the silence of my own skull. I want my Influence back. I want my orders. I want to go home.
I jerk against the restraints. My body reacts without strategy or precision, just raw panic rising too fast and loud. If there were a Sensative in the room, if Oren was here, he could bleed it out of me. But he isn't here. There's no one to lean on or ground me. I'm spiraling, and thoroughly unequipped to handle it.
I am cut off. Disconnected. No better than a Blank.
"You stole from us," I growl, the words seething between clenched teeth. "That technology belongs to the Centre."
Cabel doesn't answer right away. When he finally speaks, the words are soft, but they don't land gently.
"Do you know what happened to Wren and Ashe?"
Something in his voice slips beneath my skin, cold and quiet. My body responds before I can think, going still, muscles drawing tight. I don't answer. He watches me for a long moment, then exhales through his nose and presses his fingers to the bridge. He's already tired of me.
"You're blocked and our men are dead," Beade growls. "Tell us exactly what you know."
Beade radiates rage. I can’t help but let my mouth curve into the smallest possible smile.
I have pulled her trigger. "You son of a—"
She lunges with homicidal fury. I can only track the chaos in pieces: a cart toppling, a metal tray clattering, the blur of movement as Finn reaches out to stop her. His hand closes around her arm, but he's not quick enough to hold her back.
Cabel is, though.
One moment he's across the room, the next he has Beade pinned, one hand around her throat, the other anchoring her shoulder to the stone wall, her feet dangling helpless below her. Her eyes flash with the sudden, sharp understanding that she has gone too far.
"It is a privilege to be here," he says, eyes steely. "You've lost it."
He releases her and she stumbles sideways, face flushed with humiliation. She sputters for only a moment before spinning toward the exit, slamming the metal door behind her.
If I were someone ordinary, this might unsettle me. Cabel just took down one of his own without hesitation. If he's willing to do that to her, what would he do to me? I've watched commanders break their own soldiers for less.
But I'm not ordinary, and I'm not unsettled. If anything, the faintest curl tugs at the corner of my mouth. He expected terror. He won't find it.
"I'm sorry about her. Beade is..." Finn starts, his voice apologetic.
Cabel cuts him off. "She's accountable for her own actions."
Finn nods and steps back to collect the scattered instruments from the floor. There's no anger or tension in his movements. He's clearly used to cleaning up their messes. He does keep glancing at me like I'm going to shatter. It’s incredibly irritating.
Cabel hasn't looked away from me, so I meet his gaze head-on.
"Were our men the ones who attacked you?"
I don't say anything.
"Are they dead?"
"Yes." I don't soften it. "And I would do it again."
Cabel doesn't challenge me or even look surprised. "Of that, I have no doubt."
I'm used to setting the tone in a room, controlling the heat in an argument. The Blanks are our burden, jealous of power they could never touch. They aren't supposed to be strong enough to strip me of anything. But here I am, bound, blocked, caged, with a Blank standing over me like he holds all the pieces.
I won't let them see how deep the wound goes. I sure as hell won't let them believe I fear them.
"We're not going to hurt you."
Finn's voice is so casual, so quietly placed, that it startles me. He says it like it's meant to be comforting, some generous truth I should be grateful for.
"If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead." He shrugs, maddeningly nonchalant, then turns back to cleaning up Beade's mess.
A sharp beep draws my attention. My eyes follow Cabel's arm as he lifts it, revealing a thin device bound by leather straps. About six inches long, flat, and pulsing with faint light. I've never seen anything like it in any Centre tech inventory. I watch the furrow form between his brows. Cabel leans in to Finn, muttering something too quiet to catch, then turns and walks out.
"He's got business. You're with me now," Finn says, then pauses. "Look, I want to take the restraints off you, but I'd like to know you won't try to kill me if I do."
I glare. His lips twitch in response. He reaches toward my shoulder, and I flinch hard. The restraints dig into my skin as I try to pull away, but there's nowhere to go.
"I'm going to loosen the strap on your other wrist. Just hold still."
He works the lock, and it pops open with a soft click.
The instant my wrist is free, I lunge.
I mean to go for his eyes, to blind him and buy myself a head start. Instead, the world rocks on its axis and the stone walls swirl around me. The sudden movement has turned my right ear, already a screaming void of static, into a lead weight that drags me toward the floor. I don't even clear the edge of the gurney. Whatever attack I’d envisioned dissolves into a scramble for balance I no longer have. I catch the metal rail, my gut heaving as the room continues to spin in a sickening, uneven loop. What little water I'd consumed hits the stone in heavy, ugly splatters.
"Told you to hold still."
Finn’s voice is too amused, and I want nothing more than to elbow him in the throat. But my ear is still roaring, and I can't even find my own feet, let alone his neck.
I lift my head and see his hand extended, palm up and steady. Every instinct says jerk back. The idea of relying on a Blank for help repulses me, but I’m past pretending I'm fine.
So, I take his hand. I expect it to be clinical, maybe even rough, but instead he moves gently, giving me time to brace as he eases me upright. No sudden movements, no smug remarks. It irritates me more than if he'd tried to gloat.
"You know," he says, glancing at me as he undoes the ankle straps, "for a soldier, you don't take orders very well."
I scowl, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Everything is still spinning, my balance wrecked by my perforated ear and the missing hum of my Influence.
"I'd kick you," I spit, the taste of copper and bile still on my tongue. "But I don't really feel like puking again."
Finn gives me a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation. When he's unlatched the final strap, I roll my ankles gingerly, testing the range of motion. My whole body feels stiff.
"Sore is normal," he says, shrugging. "You were out for three days."
Three days? I blink, hoping I've misheard, but his face confirms it. Three days. My heart kicks hard against my ribs. Three days and no one found me. He must see the panic on my face because his expression softens with infuriating concern.
"I'm sure they're looking for you," he offers gently.
It's too much. The softness. The pity. The certainty in his voice like kindness makes up for reality.
"Don't patronize me," I hiss, but the fury catches in my throat, strangled by the sheer weight of the truth. When the words finally escape, they are cracked and hollow. "Forty-eight hours."
He blinks, confused. "What?"
"That's how long they search for a missing soldier. After that, we are presumed dead."
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. The quiet in his voice almost convinces me he means it. Then he reaches for my wrists and locks them into heavy metal restraints. He avoids my eyes as he works, something almost apologetic in his touch.
He reaches out to help me down. When I feel his fingers at my elbow, I twist desperately out of his grasp. "I pulled shrapnel out of my own body. I don't need your help to walk."
It's the first time he's shown real irritation, and I know he's done humoring me. I slide my legs over the edge of the gurney, willing them to stay steady as I plant my feet on the stone floor and push myself upright.
My left knee gives out immediately, but Finn's arms close around my waist before my skull can meet the floor. It’s bad enough to not be in control of my limbs, but the specific heat of his body against mine makes it infinitely worse. A Blank is holding me up. A Blank. A performatively, artificially kind Blank is the only thing between me and a broken jaw.
I reach for my chain, fingers wrapping tight around the metal pendant. The engraving is worn into the skin of my thumb from how often I've held it. It presses into my palm, familiar and steady, the only part of me that doesn't feel like it's failing.
"You may not want my help," Finn says, his voice firmer now, "but I'm going to give it."
Before I can argue, he's lifting me back onto the gurney. He disappears behind me, and I hear metallic clattering. After a minute, he reappears before me, pushing an old, decrepit wheelchair in front of him. I hate him for this. I hate myself more.
I glare at this Chair of Defeat. At what I've been reduced to. A Centre operative who can't even stand without collapsing. Finn reaches for me, and I pull back instinctively.
"Wait," I whisper. "I just need a minute," I try, the panic rising faster than I can control. But Finn keeps moving, hands already positioned to lift me from the gurney.
"Stop!" I gasp, icy desperation gripping my chest. "Stop!"
He freezes, hands dropping to his sides. "Okay," he says gently. "I'm sorry."
My lungs pull tight, the cold air clawing down my throat.
"My legs don't work, I can't breathe, and I can't see!"
There is a loud silence, and he looks at me. But for the first time, he sees me.
"You're a Radio."
It isn't a question. He knows what's been taken, understands what Cabel already knew.
I am a Radio. The air should be a living tapestry of light, dancing with the vibrant waves of everything in it. Pulsing with electrical currents, heartbeats, brain patterns from everyone within miles. A symphony of data and life.
But now, there is nothing. I reach for the golden thread of electricity in the lights, for the warmth of his blue life signature, and find only a gaping hole where the world used to be. I try to broadcast a single, silent scream for help, but my thoughts just echo back, trapped and useless inside my skull.
They didn't just blind me. They've hollowed me. Stolen my world and left me stranded in this pathetic, suffocating cage of flesh and bone.
"Yes."
Finn nods, but doesn't push further. Instead, he just waits. When my hands stop shaking, he lowers me into the chair without a word, like I'm weightless. Like I'm nothing. I don't fight it this time.
I feel like cargo. Too tall for this chair, too small next to him, too broken to do anything but sit and be moved like a discarded doll.
We leave the medical room and travel down a short corridor carved through mountain stone.
"Can I ask what you were doing out there?" he tries.
I glance up without humor. He takes the hint, smirking. "Fine. Figured I'd try."
The lights flicker ahead, shadows cast by the rough hallway walls swaying with each uneven, creaking roll of the wheels. The rhythm becomes something I can sink into as exhaustion pulls me under.
My head dips forward once. Then again. By the third time, I stop trying to catch it. My body folds into the chair and sleep drags me under.
"Hey. Hey."
Finn's hand jolts my shoulder and my eyes snap open. We've stopped in front of an open doorway.
"We're here," he says quietly.
I do my best to sit up quickly, embarrassment coloring my cheeks. I never fall asleep in front of people, never rest unless it's safe, and this place is anything but. I hate that I can't tell if he's being kind or just keeping me upright.
He rolls me into a room that screams holding cell. Centre housing isn't always luxury, but it's clean and structured. This place looks assembled from scraps. Bare stone walls, cold floor, dim lantern. A narrow bed sits in the corner, metal-framed and uninviting. Finn lifts me without effort and sets me on the thin, threadbare mattress. I pull my knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them.
"It's not much," Finn says, rubbing his neck. "You hungry?"
I don't respond. He sighs, and I can feel the fatigue of my silent insolence wearing on him.
"Fine. Just shout if you need me."
He turns toward the door, then pauses, voice soft and quiet.
"What's your name?"
I lift my head and glare. Why does it matter? What would he do with my name? Carve it on a tombstone? Tell himself he saved someone human instead of just postponing an execution?
"Why did you save me?" It comes out thin and close to fear.
"Because I'm not your enemy," he sighs, patting the wall twice. "Like I said. Holler if you need me."
He heads for the door, hands in his pockets. For someone his size, he moves with surprising lightness.
I shouldn’t tell him. I should keep my mouth shut.
"Arra."
The word comes out quiet, uncertain. He pauses at the doorframe to look back at me, and I catch the faint, knowing smile he's barely hiding.
"Goodnight, Arra."
And then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.