Fear Itself

Except, when I got there, all I wanted to do was look back. It was horrific. Morning light had broken hours ago. I had watched all of our ranks leave the Hangar. Hundreds were supposed to be here, but I only saw seventy up and moving. A few of them were dragging the dead into alleys, leaving trails of blood to stain the cobblestone. The stench of blood and gunpowder wrinkled my nose, but much to my surprise, there was no noise. People were reloading their weapons, digging through their packs, patching up minor wounds or tending to the dead. I tried to find my friends, but they were lost in the crowd.

In the center of all this chaos was a shining, silver statue of Conor Kennedy. At the statue’s base stood Alex. “Alex!” I shouted over the chatter, waving an arm high above my head to catch his darting gaze. When he spotted me, his gaze brightened, and he shoved his way through to me.

“T, what’s up?” he asked. “Why are you here?” Dirt covered his face, so I brushed it off. “Dean’s gonna be pissed, y’know.”

“Figured as much,” I sighed a little. That was something I accepted long ago. Dean could suck it up. “What’s going on? Why’s it quiet?”

“Lull,” Alex explained. “We got ‘em pretty good, but that was only the first round. The Board got out, but the news is estimating that about 284 politicians showed up. We killed about 135. 27 managed to flee to safety, and 86 luckily ran late, got wind of this, and decided not to show up. That leaves 36 unaccounted for. Overall, pretty good.”

So we were just dealing with militia now. That would have been easy, except that they had use severely outnumbered. Now that we were working on an extremely diminished group, it seemed even more unlikely that we would succeed. Morale seemed decent, despite this. Everyone was still working. “How many did we lose?” I asked.

“165,” Alex mumbled, scratching the back of his neck and looking away for a moment as his face fixed in concentration. He began counting on his hands, but he ran out of fingers. “We lost Simon York, Colette Deschamps, Olivia Hardwick, Jack Patton, Candace Jerome, Ryan Fox, Elijah Griffith, Lola Brady, Winnie Roth, James Nixon… to name a few.”

“That’s enough,” I told him, closing my eyes for a moment and drawing a deep breath. “I get the point. How long do we have?”

“Who knows.” Alex shrugged. “Could be minutes. Could be hours.”

“Fair enough,” I mumbled. “Alright.” I breathed a quick and tiny sigh. “I’m gonna take a look around. See ya ‘round, mate,” I said. We exchanged a brief hug and went our separate ways.

I ducked into an alley to find Larson standing over dead bodies, all lined up in perfect even rows. All their eyes were closed. Some were more mangled than others. Preferring not to look, I kept my eyes on Larson. “So, Doc, what’s the damage?”

“Lots of Americans,” he sighed. “Lots of friends.”

“Is Garrett alright?”

Larson nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “Garrett is fine. If you need him, you can find him at the barricade. Same for Mr. Fortier and Mr. Cassidy.” He lifted his eyes to me. “Both of which I assume have no idea you’re present.”

He assumed correct. He could tell from the smirk that crept up on my face. “Collins is up there too. I’m surprised he’s still up and fighting, to be honest with you. I was sure he would bite the bullet with that garbage plan of his.” He huffed a laugh. “Operation Human Shield, he called it.” When I asked him what in the world he meant, he laughed again. “Mr. Collins and a group of very brave souls took out security as they arrived before the ceremony began. They stole their uniforms and posed as security until it was time to open fire. Foolish plan, it was, but it was brave.” Foolish and brave. Just like Casper had said.

Larson had more work to do, more dead to tend to. He left me in the alley to do as I pleased. There were about twenty men and women lying here on the ground. How many were left in the other alleys? How many more had to die before this ended?

“Hello, Pumpkin.”

A voice from the other side of the backstreet came piercing through my thoughts. It was unmistakably the cold and icy voice of my father, standing by the entrance, probably a small crevice that the team had forgotten to seal off. Gripping my gun in my hand, I took a few steps toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to stop you from ruining your life, Thalia.” He approached me with a pompous smirk on his face, an expression I was far too used to, far too sick of seeing. “You can stop this,” he told me. He extended both his arms to me, offering his embrace. Once upon a time, I would have run for him. I would have surged forward to take that hug, to relish in his warm and his love. But I knew better now. It wasn’t love at all. It was a sick and twisted obsession, a way to keep me locked away with him for the rest of my life. No longer would I run back into his arms. “It’s not too late to come home, Pumpkin. I forgive you.”

Hoping he would turn and leave without being difficult, I took a handgun from my thigh and stuck the larger one through the holster on my back. With both hands steadied, I aimed it at him. “I don’t remember apologizing,” I said coldly.

My father laughed at me. He had a gun in his face, and he had the audacity to stand there and heckle me. “Tali, dear,” he chuckled condescendingly. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

“This one, yeah,” I told him. “The big one, not so much, but I’m sure I could figure it out, if you really want to play.”

My father’s face flipped on a dime, contorting into a sneer. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed. “Thalia, I am your father.”

“I’m afraid you’ve yet to earn that title, Nathaniel,” I corrected him. “I’ll have no qualms about shooting you.” I inched the gun forward just a little, but he didn’t waver.

“Thalia Rosalind Giroux, you will put down that gun right now,” he commanded. His scowl forced lines into his face, making him look decades older than he was. How true it was that anger made you ugly. My father was living proof.

“I’ll put down one bullet,” I offered. “Where do you want it?”

“I’m done playing these games with you, Thalia—“ Poor audacious soul dared to step forward. I fired a single shot just past his head, and he stopped in his tracks.

“No, father,” I sneered. “I’m done playing your games.” I stepped forward, placing the barrel of the gun at the top of his nose, right between his eyes. “This is how it’s going to go, and you better listen well because if I find out you’ve cheated me, you might as well be a dead man.” I cleared my throat. “One, you’re going to leave me alone from this day forward. If I ever see your face in my presence, I will beat it in, and if I don’t, I’ve got both a real father and a husband who’d be glad to do it for me. Number two: tomorrow, you will leave the door to the Board room unlocked, and you will not resist us when we come for Kennedy. Number three, you will not tell Kennedy that we are coming for him.” I paused. “Are we clear?” He gave me a quiet yes. “Fantastic,” I chirped. “Then, you live to see another day, Giroux.”

“You’re a Giroux too, Thalia,” he muttered through gritted teeth. I shook my head at him.

“No,” I said slowly. “As of about two months ago, I’m a Cassidy. I don’t want anything to do with your filthy bloodline or your name.” My father’s eyes narrowed. “I think it’s in your best decision to leave now.” Slow and silent, he began to walk away, and just before he turned the corner, I shouted, “Remember our agreement! Wouldn’t want any blood spilled over this, would we?”

When my father disappeared from sight, the faint sound of marching feet sounded in the back like a distant drum. Time to move. Time to get acquainted with League Militia.