Kelly Meding: Chimera

“What about the photo we sent?” Alexia asked.

While he was coming to his senses after being slammed into a brick wall, Ethan had managed to take a cell phone photo of Jack and Jill. He’d sent it to Marco for uploading into our database, and if we were lucky we’d be able to get a face match on our thieves. It was the only photo anyone had managed to take so far.

“It’s in the system,” Teresa replied. “Marco will call me as soon as there’s information. Now get to the infirmary.”

She spun on her heel and walked back into HQ. As she went, I realized what had seemed so off about that brief encounter—no Gage. The pair were always together, supporting each other, especially during active operations. They’d stepped into an unofficial dual leadership role since getting together in January. Unofficial in the sense that while Teresa was our unequivocal team leader, we deferred to Gage in her absence out of habit. Mostly he seemed okay with that, but lately I wasn’t entirely sure.

Last month, Gage had been badly hurt during our encounter with the clones of dead Rangers, and he’d been trapped in a sling while his broken collarbone repaired itself. It meant staying behind a lot and not supporting Teresa in the field like he was used to doing. Gage and I weren’t as close as we could be, but something about him had changed since that fight. It could have to do with his injury as much as with the fact that one of the clones had been his older brother Jasper, who’d died when Gage was twelve.

Seeing Jasper again— fighting him—had to have been weird as hell.

All of the clones had been weird as hell, including the clone of William’s father, who’d once gone by the code name Sledgehammer. The resemblance between father and son was incredible. We’d battled five clones that day. Four were still out there somewhere.

Aaron and Ethan set off for the infirmary, with Alexia and me trailing a few steps behind. Despite Aaron’s dramatic introduction into our lives, as well as Ethan’s initial reticence to come out as gay, they really were a cute couple. And they seemed happy, which was something I hadn’t seen from Ethan in a long, long time. Most of the demons that had haunted him since our repowering in January were gone.

Maybe one day I’d be lucky enough to smile like that, free of anger and fear and self-loathing.

Maybe.

Probably not.

The infirmary was close to the entrance on purpose. We were an injury-prone group, which surprised no one considering our profession of choice, and getting people medical attention as fast as possible seemed prudent. Dr. Abram Kinsey was already awake and waiting for us, as was his assistant Jessica Lam. Jessica came to us a few weeks ago, seeking a place to stay, as well as help controlling her Meta powers. She was a nursing student, two years into her studies, when she discovered she had the ability to touch someone’s bare skin and hear their thoughts. Her Meta power made nursing difficult to pursue, so she quit. Now she was getting all kinds of hands-on experience, as well as studying with Dr. Kinsey in her free time.

Jessica handled Alexia and my minor wounds, while Dr. Kinsey crowded Ethan over to a cot so he could examine his swollen hand. Aaron hovered the entire time, even though he had zero reason to distrust Kinsey’s medical care. Kinsey was Aaron’s father in a six-degrees-of-genetic-manipulation kind of way.

As expected, I was dosed with aspirin and discharged. We’d converted the old barrack dormitories into private rooms—although we still had to share central bathroom facilities. I’d painted my own room a comforting shade of pale yellow with navy blue trim around the two windows and doorframe. Other than that, it had a bed and a closet, and that was all I wanted. My few personal belongings were stored in the closet, and it was the first time in my life I’d had a bedroom without a mirror in it. My hair was short enough that it behaved after three quick strokes with a brush; I didn’t need to see any other part of my body.

I shucked off my uniform and collapsed into bed in my underwear, too achy and exhausted to bother putting anything else on. Instead of sleep, my mind was stuck on an image of Jack and Jill—young and cocky and stealing food.

Why?

Something told me the answer was worth finding.

My cell phone woke me from a fitful sleep with an insistent buzz. A specific buzz, too, telling me I had an urgent message from the War Room—a function programmed into all of our phones.

Debriefing at noon.

Joy. It was almost eleven already, which gave me enough time to grab a hot shower and get something to eat. The shower loosened sore muscles and comforted my newest bruises. Since I was already blue in many places (except for the purple and pink parts that were burn scars), bruises turned my skin inky black. My back looked like a fountain pen had exploded all over it.

I’ve been blue-skinned since I was eight years old. Out of the last twenty years of my life, I’ve spent maybe two of them hating my unusual appearance—the first year and the year after the War, when we lost our powers and the surviving Meta kids were sent our separate ways. For the rest of those years, I’d had people around me who accepted me for who I was and what I looked like. First the Rangers, and then my foster parents. I’d learned to love my unique (to say the least) appearance.

Lately, though, the very things I used to love make me turn away from my reflection. And don’t think it’s because I’m vain and my scars make me sick. It isn’t that, not really. The scars are part of me now. It’s how my powers have changed. I’ve always felt like a lesser Meta than my friends, with a less useful power that only occasionally comes in handy. Now that my powers are barely functioning and I’ve resorted to running around with a gun . . . well, you can figure it out.

And no amount of pep talks from Teresa or tequila shots with Ethan have made me feel better about my situation. It didn’t help that the front-runner in this year’s presidential election was running on a successful anti-Meta platform, and that in six months we had a very real chance of being locked up as weapons of mass destruction. People were scared of us, period, and the Recombinants running around causing trouble (not to mention devastating 9.0 earthquakes in California) were only digging our grave faster and wider.

It’s hard to get up every single day and fight for a future we don’t have.

But I do, because it’s just not in me to lie down and die. It’s not in any of us.

I headed down to the cafeteria on the first floor to grab some coffee before the debriefing. There’s no regular meal schedule, just an open kitchen that’s kept stocked with basics so people can come and go as they please. It’s probably not the most cost-effective system, but trying to schedule mealtimes and assign cooking duties would be pointless. We’re off the island at regular meal hours half the time, anyway.

But there is always plenty of hot coffee ready, and I poured a mug to take with me. I contemplated a platter of bagels that was left out on one of the dozen round tables, then seized one that looked like blueberry. Might as well put something in my stomach besides caffeine. On my way out I nearly ran right into Double Trouble. An exhausted, pale Double Trouble who looked like she wanted to find the nearest receptacle and toss her lunch.

Three months ago, through a series of unfortunate events, our newest teammate Dahlia Perkins permanently joined bodies with hybrid-Changeling Noah Scott (Aaron’s younger brother). They can take turns “owning” the body—controlling the physical actions, as well as appearance—but so far we’ve been unable to figure out how to separate them from each other. I’d never say it out loud, but I feel sorry for them. I don’t know how I’d cope, always having someone else in my head.