Lose 10 Pounds of Ugly Fat... Cut Off Your Head

Randall scans the common area, rubbing the back of his broad neck.

It's more crowded this evening than most, what with the storm outside and all thirteen of his charges indoors. Near the front door, the eldest of the group are playing a rather noisy game of mind hockey. Two and Four take on One and Three, with Five playing interference. From the looks of it, they're more concerned with their bank shots than who's winning. The glowing puck caroms off walls and furniture, and Five's spending more time ducking and laughing than catching and redirecting.

Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen huddle in a far corner with a portable vidplayer. Its light dances on their soft faces. These three are young enough their voices are still half-changed, their complexions rebellious. There's a state-of-the-art vidroom on the ward, but Randall knows boys. Whatever they're watching, he's guessing it's got women and it's not quite Government-Sanctioned.

Let them have their fun. A smile, thin and brittle, curves Randall's lips.

In the sparring room, Six and Eight face off while Nine and Ten wait their turn. Even through the shatterproof glass, Randall can hear shouts and cheers, the occasional thud of bodies coming together. The crash of Manipulated chairs and other objects missing an opponent or spectator by only the narrowest margin. Randall shakes his head, wishing he still had their energy. Their determination.

Not that it'll change a thing; they can practice 'til the end of time, but they'll never get the best of Seven.

He's alone as he always is these days, apart from training and his time with Brinkley. Seven doesn't talk to the other boys, but he can beat every last one of them in a fight. You'd never guess it to look at him now, slumped in an oversized chair at the back of the ward. His back rests against one arm, gangly legs thrown over the other. Long black hair hides his face; his head hangs as he sits, silent and still.

Even in the state he's in, Seven can sense Randall's approach--he's that good. The boy doesn't move, doesn't give any sign, but that doesn't mean a thing and Randall knows it. Sure enough, as soon as Randall's in earshot, Seven mutters, "Go 'way, Rand."

Randall doesn't move and neither does the kid. Scarecrow-skinny and limbs loose, he looks like a broken puppet, a cast-off toy; he doesn't know he could kill everyone in this place if he wanted and walk away free. They're not about to let him find out, either. Even with Brinkley, their dark knight riding in to save the day, the kid's barely controlled. Anyone who's watched him Manipulate can see that.

"Y'okay, kid?" Randall asks, even though he knows the answer.

Seven nods, a near-imperceptible twitch. It's a lie; the treatments are meant to be a last resort, same as the shocks.

No one was ever intended to withstand what they're putting him through. A weaker boy would've broken long ago, and this one's beginning to. His arms are bandaged; he'll slice himself to ribbons if he's left alone too long. They'll grind him down, given enough time.

Randall intends to smuggle him out before that happens, but that'll be easier said than done. He'll have to get Seven to trust him first, and the kid's locked down tighter than the ward itself. There's the issue of his abilities as well, but unlike most of the staff, Randall's not afraid.

Seven doesn't want to hurt anyone; Brinkley'd be dead if he did.

Brinkley knows it, too. Seven's allegations were classified, but everyone's heard what happened. The Board took Brinkley at his word; they made noises about cutting the kid from the Program, as if "decommissioning" him would be that easy. Brinkley rushed to Seven's defense, insisting it wouldn't be fair to hold his "delusions" against him. He only needed more time. More treatments.

It makes Randall sick, picturing Brinkley with his martyr's smile. I only want what's best for the boy.

Randall knows better than that; he's had Brinkley pegged since he first swaggered onto Ward Zero. Brinkley wants what's best for Brinkley, and he's used to getting it. Used to telling people what to do, guys who've put in their time, worked for what they've got. Less than a year on the ward and Brinkley's doing procedures Randall can only dream of, work he'll never see outside a Multiversity text.

"Rand?" The voice is muffled, paper-thin. "Why're you still here?"

"I worry about you," Randall says without thinking.

The boy snorts. "Heard that one before." He raises his head; the economy of his movements is fascinating. Painful.

Randall puts his hands in his pockets; his instinct's to reach out. To pat Seven's shoulder, brush the hair back from his face. He restrains himself. The kid's like a mutt who's been kicked one time too many--get too close and he'll snap. "You can't go on like this much longer."

"Don't have to." His tone's even, devoid of emotion. "Won't live much longer."

The calm acceptance rattles Randall the most; his words come out in a rush. "What if there's another way out?"

A ghost of a shrug. "Thought of that already. Not gonna kill anyone."

"I know," Randall says. "I can take it all away. Make you normal."

Seven snaps to attention, wincing at the sudden change in position. A hint of hope lights his pallid face before he catches himself. His expression goes blank in an instant, but his amber eyes hold Randall's gaze; they shine like a child's. "You can't."

Randall nods, ignoring the guilt that knifes through his belly. "I can." It's not a lie; he can suppress Seven's abilities, make him forget everything he's gone through here on the ward. Let him live a regular life. And he will, for a while--until the kid's healed.

Until he's recovered his strength enough to help Randall get what he wants, just this once.

The winter wind howls, pummels me with invisible fists. It cuts through my hoodie, knocks my own wind right out of me, but I don't mind. Up here on the roof, it's peaceful--or what passes for that these days. I risk my neck every time I come here--the jump from the nearest tree's almost too far. One day I'll probably miss, but I won't mind that, either.

Not like I've got a lot to live for anyway.

I remember the first time I made the leap. How I held my breath and waited for the shock--that skull-splitting, white-hot pain. Almost hoped for it, really. It's fucked up, isn't it, wanting 'em to hurt me so bad I can't breathe? Thing is, you can't think either, when you're hurting like that. But the shock--they call it "Therapeutic Correction"--never came, even though they had to know I was up here that night. They track us through our neuro chips, so they have to know I've been here most every night since, too. That I've been talking to her.

"Is that you, sugar?" Her voice drifts up from below, slow and sweet like the syrup Eric's ma used to--

Dangerous thoughts, Number Seven. Another voice, icier than any wind.

All of us on Ward Zero hear the voices, heard 'em months before we came to the Home. They're part of the Program, meant to guide us. Get our thoughts back on track when they veer off too far. The first time I heard 'em, I thought I'd gone crazy. After a while I knew I had, but by then it didn't matter. It was just one more thing I didn't think about, like the names the other kids called me at school. The store clerks' withering looks when I picked up my ma's bottles. How I knew that's all I was to her--an extra ration, a way to get more booze.

One more thing I've learned to work around, that's all the voices are.

The shocks're supposed to be like that, too. None of the other Ward Zero guys need 'em anymore--not even Number Eight and Number Nine, who got here after I did. They do what they're told, automatic-like. None of 'em seem to wonder why we're here, what the Program's really about. They stick together, eat and sleep and train, don't break the rules. All of 'em avoid the shocks, all except me. I'm the only one who's ever tried to run, and the "correction" I got for that near killed me. Made me miss a week of training, too.

"Sug?" she calls, real soft, from her balcony on Women's Ward. "Help a lady up?"

"Yeah." I stretch out on my belly, dangle one arm over the edge and brace myself with the other. She climbs up quick, but I stay where I am. Lie there looking down into the darkness, think about how far I could fall. How easy it'd be. The voice doesn't do a thing to stop me, but she does. She grasps my arm tight, pulls me back from the brink. Does she know what I was thinking? If so, she shows no sign.

I straighten up and turn to face her, have to look up a little to meet her eyes. She's never told me how old she is, never even told me her name. But I figure her for at least Eleventh Year, maybe even of age. She's got at least an inch on me, even though I'm tall for fourteen. Towered over all the other boys in my class, back when I still went to school. When Eric was still--

Number Seven. Control your mind, before it controls you.

I shake my head, try to clear it.

"Hard day?" She brushes my hair out of my eyes, studies me. "You look done in."

My knees turn to rubber. I grit my teeth against despair, wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. Strong. I'm strong, always have been, and Eric wouldn't want me dead. He wouldn't. I wait for the voice to tell me otherwise, but it's silent for now.

"I've been--" My words catch in my throat, and I swallow. "I'm okay."

We both know it's a lie. She feels the sadness in me, same as I feel it in her. The ache inside that won't ever go away. I see it in her dark eyes, the way her smiles never quite reach 'em. Hear it in the country lilt of her voice, the heavy note that weighs it down.

She gets it, the way the Program guys never will.

They're nice enough, I guess, but most of 'em are happy to be here. Why wouldn't they be? They come from shitty families like mine, and other than the "corrections," life here's pretty cushy. The kitchen staff makes our favorite foods, and we've got all the games and vids and music we could ever want. The other wards're all locked down, but not Ward Zero. We're free to roam the grounds, to do whatever we feel like when we're not training. Who knows? Maybe I'd be happy here, too, if my best friend hadn't died the day I moved in.

Your best friend betrayed you, the voice reminds me, like I'm ever gonna forget. He turned you over to us.

"Not much for talkin' tonight, are you?" she asks.

Tears prick my eyes at the kindness in her voice, but I'm not gonna cry--not in front of her or anyone else. I shake my head, turn away. There's a stone structure nearby, about a foot taller than me, with an overhang that blocks some of the wind. Set into one side's a door--probably leads to the stairs, but it's always locked. I sit down, my back against it. Rest my cheek against its cool metal surface. Even in this weather, it's a comfort. She sits, too, and I let my hair fall over my face, wait 'til I can trust myself to speak.

"Been thinking a lot, is all." My voice's thick, and I clear my throat. "Y'know, about why I'm here."

"You goin' philosophical on me?" She laughs, and it's like music. "Or you mean how you wound up in the Home?"

Kinda both. Why am I alive when Eric's dead? If he turned me in, why'd he die trying to stop them from--

That's enough, Number Seven.

"How'd you end up in the Home?" I ask, to occupy my mind with something else. On Ward Zero, we're special. They hand-picked us for the Program, even if some of us weren't exactly willing. The other Residents, though... there's a reason they've got 'em all on lockdown. A reason this place's called the Home for the Intractably Insane. "You don't seem like a nutter."

She snorts. "Well, you don't seem like a killer. What're you, a hunnert-twenty pounds sopping wet?"

A what? I blink at her, shocked silent.

Her eyes go wide, and the color drains from her face. "Bless your little heart." She puts a hand to her own heart, and her full lips part like she's gonna say more. But she doesn't, not right away. She leans in close, smooths my hair back from my face. Puts a cool hand on my forehead like a ma'd do--any ma besides mine. "You... you really don't know, do you?"

My stomach lurches, and I gulp in cold air to settle it. "Know what?"

She sighs. Plays with a strand of her long black hair, twists it around one slim finger.

They're the killers, not me--the men in the black cloaks. I want to tell her, but I'm trembling too hard to get the words out. "Men" doesn't feel like the right thing to call 'em, either, those faceless figures in black. The boneless, graceful way they moved, and how their bodies flickered--

The shock comes before I can speak, swift and fucking brutal. Rips through my brain like lightning, rattles my teeth in their sockets. My breath stops, and my heart beats out of time. Crashes around inside my ribcage like a tiny, broken bird. I clap my hands to my head, bite my tongue so I won't cry out. Never let 'em hear me scream. Mouth tastes like metal, world goes gray--

"Hey," I croak. Fight to stay conscious. "You called me a killer. Why?"

"Oh, honey." Her voice's so sad. "What'd you think they were training you for?"