#first sons

3. Ended up taking on dangerous challenges at least in part because those fathers were both having their reason and good judgment manipulated by opponents (Théoden through the treachery of Gríma/Saruman and Denethor by the selective truths shown to him by Sauron in the palantír).

4. Got killed in a battle where their opponents were targeting them to the exclusion of others around them (Saruman’s forces at the Isen were told to kill Théodred at all costs even while “disregarding” others, and the orcs at Parth Galen fire their arrows “always at Boromir” while leaving Merry and Pip untouched).

5. Were trying to summon aid at the time they were struck down (Théodred is shouting “To me, Eorlingas!” to summon reinforcements when he’s fatally wounded. Boromir blows his great horn to alert the rest of the fellowship before he’s brought down).

6. Took massive injuries but lived long enough afterward to pass on last words in which they invoke the names of the men who will come to replace them as leaders and express the hope that those next leaders will achieve victory (Elfhelm and Grimbold believe Théodred is dead before they discover he’s still breathing just enough to say, “Let me lie here to keep the fords til Éomer comes.” Boromir, as we all know, lays there with those arrows in his chest long enough to be found by Aragorn, at which point he says, “Farewell, Aragorn. Go to Minas Tirith and save my people.”).

7. Died within hours of each other (Théodred on the night on February 25 and Boromir around midday on the 26) at the same age of 41 because, oh yeah, they were also born within months of each other.

8. Didn’t get a burial/funeral in keeping with their status and the traditions of their people because they died in awful circumstances far from home (Théodred dies and is buried by Elfhelm and Grimbold’s companies at the fords rather than in the barrows outside of Edoras with his ancestors. Boromir is sent over the falls by the three hunters instead of laying in Rath Dínen with the other kings and stewards of Gondor).

9. Mentored and protected little brother-type figures (Faramir as Boromir’s actual little brother and Éomer as Théodred’s cousin/adopted little bro) who would go on to achieve what they were unable to do themselves while alive.

10. Died unmarried and childless despite being extremely marriageable, in the primes of their lives and presumably expected to produce another heir. (There’s an explanation given for Boromir—he’s not into women and prefers fighting and arms—though there is none for Théodred.) (Like many other people, I have my own personal HC for Théodred’s romantic life, but that’s for another day.)

The adults didn’t seem to like that at all. 

Dad stayed staring at the screen as Dr. Sims scrolled, the two muttering to each other as they read away. Aunt Sia seemed to catch on to something, as she immediately moved Brent to sit next to me—where he couldn’t see the computers—and left, saying she wanted to get something to show us. 

“What the hell does evolution mean?” Dad muttered, leaning forward with a hand on the back of Dr. Sims’ chair as he looked at the screen. 

“It looks like…” Dr. Sims drew off for a moment, clicking away on his keyboard. “There’s a lot of files on rayacitin here, but they’re corrupted. At least, I think it’s rayacitin? They didn’t call it that back then. Maybe they were looking at the gene itself? Let me try something…”

Dr. Sims brought his hand up to the computer, palm going blue-white hot as he pointed it towards one computer screen, the pixels lifting away and collecting on his palm. He moved that ignited hand to a different laptop, the pixels floating away like blinking fireflies and sinking into that one’s screen. 

“That’s so cool,” Brent breathed, a slightly jealous look on his face. I couldn’t exactly disagree.

Aunt Sia rushed back into the room, a smile on her face as she moved to stand right behind us, reaching over both our shoulders as if to embrace us. But she didn’t; instead, her hands kept coming around, and plopped two rats onto the table before us. 

Aunt Sia and her rats; when we were younger, she’d always have at least two at home — or usually in her pockets. Apparently they’re smart enough to sneak notes or steal keys, which was something she trained them to do during the height of her anarchy with Project Sanctuary. Who was going to blink at a rat in an alleyway in downtown Seattle? Not any DUP agents. 

And certainly not Brent, the one out of the two of us who loved unorthodox pets; he rambled for an hour once about the dream house he wanted to build with a room dedicated to enclosures for snakes and lizards and probably multiple venomous creatures. He was so enamored with herpetoculture that he planned on dedicating himself to it almost as much as architecture.

Come to think of it, Aunt Sia probably caused that obsession in the first place. 

So it wasn't a surprise when Brent’s hand immediately reached out to grab one rat that’s fur was dusted yellow, his grip gentle as he brought it closer. “What’s its name?” he asked, looking up at Aunt Sia. 

She smiled. “I call him Jerry.”

Dad sighed in that way one does when they know their friend isn’t telling the full truth. “And that’s short for?”

Her smile turned a bit devilish. “Surgery. His brother is Archie—short for Anarchy.”

I snorted. Of course it was. 

Brent and I played with the rats while Dr. Sims took to typing on both laptops, the smaller chromebook pinging and pulling his attention away for a moment. “Zeke, do you know anything about the First Sons’ history?” he asked, glancing back. 

Zeke blew out a puff of air, eyes traveling off like he was trying to look into the past. “Lord, you’re asking for information only paleontologists give a shit about,” he muttered as he thought hard. “Well…Cole said something about the First Sons having been around for a long time. Like, Salem Witch Trials old? Apparently they got a lot more members after the Civil War.”

“The Civil War?” Brent repeated, tearing his eyes away from Archie. “Like, the…the first one?” 

Zeke nodded. “The one in the 1800s? Yeah.”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t it required for all the members of the First Sons to have the gene?” he asked. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Zeke said. “I know John and Kuo were sent in playing spy because they had the gene, but I don’t know how they knew it existed or how they tested for it before. Just that they were a bunch of tinfoil-hat-wearing nutjobs that thought they could bend spoons with their minds like David Blaine.”

I had no idea who he was talking about but apparently Dad did, as his head tilted to the side and he asked, “The magician?” with the same tone of voice he would if Zeke was talking about aliens. 

“They practiced mentalism,” Zeke explained. “Telekinesis and the like.”

“Didn’t realize we were in a bad movie plot,” Brent muttered, glancing over at me. 

Zeke heard it, though. “Hey, laugh all you wanna, but if what Kuo said was true, they were dead serious about the idea. Believed they were the key to…” Zeke drew off, brow furrowing as he realized his next words. “Humanity’s advancement.”

“Evolution.” Aunt Sia added from beside me, glancing at Dad. 

Dr. Sims paused the scrolling to click. “I just found some sort of schematic, look.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. “Zeke, come here.” He commanded, continuing, “Doesn’t this look like those pods in the First Sons’ base?”

Zeke squinted, the lack of glasses keeping him from seeing the image easily. “Looks about right.” he agreed after a moment. 

Dad nodded, vindicated he was right as he asked, “What else does it say?” 

Dr. Sims’ brow furrowed as he took his time in reading, eventually pointing to his screen and reading aloud, “‘Enzymatic Evolution System: this module refers to the part of the power transfer apparatus meant to house the donor’s Conduit protein, artificially mature them via RFE, and…encourage rapid skill enhancement and ability progression cataclysm by implementation of an artificially-integrated enzyme meant to trigger the protein’s natural development.’”

“Natural development,” I repeated, looking at Dad. “Like…getting stronger with your power?”

“It’s gotta be,” he agreed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The way his eyes glared at the table in thought made it look like his mind was going a mile a minute. 

Something dinged, that same single chime of something having finished downloading, and Dr. Sims looked at the small laptop in the middle of his setup. “The journal just finished decoding.” He announced, leaning forward a bit. 

“Plug in ‘evolution,’ see what you get,” Aunt Sia instructed. 

Dr. Sims did—and both he and Dad cringed at whatever appeared on the screen. “What is it?” I asked. 

Dad shook his head in disbelief and looked away from the computer, moving to grab the physical copy of Wolfe’s journal under a bunch of folders and opening it, flipping back and forth through the pages until he landed on the one he was looking for. And he cringed, hard, like something in it hurt to look at.

And when he set it back down on the table, I couldn’t help but do the same. 

The journal, indecipherable to me by word, wasn’t as incoherent regarding what the entry was about—especially when there was a polaroid paper clipped to the corner that showcased the horror the entry had to be describing. 

There was a man held down…or, what probably was a man. The flat stomach and chest seemed to suggest so, even if the four arms didn’t. One was clamped between metal teeth, the others lying limply at his sides—like even if he wanted to fight, he couldn’t. He just looked so exhausted. His head was leaned back into some sad excuse of a neck support, his waist held in place by what looked like the world’s worst diaper. His skin was purpled, the muscle strained and rippled and looking like it was threatening to shred from the strain. 

And at the foot of the metal platform he was laying against, was the Ray Sphere. 

“Jesus…” Brent drew off, looking away. He never had the stomach for grotesque stuff, not by a long haul—but even I was finding this hard to look at. 

“What is that?” Aunt Sia asked behind us. 

Zeke let his foot fall from being propped up against the wall, leaning forward to look around Dr. Sims at his computer screen. “Son of a bitch, I’ve seen something like this before.”

Dad glanced up at Zeke. “You have?” He asked, bewildered. I couldn’t really blame him; Zeke had seen something like this before? “Is it another one of Bertrand’s things?”

Zeke shook his head. “Nah, nothing like that. ‘Bout a week or two after Cole killed Kessler, when the military invaded Empire City? There was this…thing that was trying to hunt down Cole. Purple like this dude, had four arms too. Couldn’t tell you what it was from, though.”

“Did you ever find out why it wanted Cole?” I asked, moving to cover my cast with my sleeve as Jerry did his best to bite a chunk out of my cast’s plastic. Aunt Sia saw this, grabbed the little rat off of the table, and put him on her shoulder as a form of time out.

Zeke just shook his head. 

Dr. Sims’ head, though, tilted slightly to the side as he looked at the picture on the screen. “I think I remember that,” he said cautiously, trying to access the memory from somewhere deep within. “Remember Mr. Seay’s class, Alessia? He’d have us do these current event things based off of news segments he’d show us. He had us do a whole debate segment on the news reels from Empire City, and it had some creature that looked a lot like this.”

Aunt Sia nodded slowly. “I remember that. I also remember him getting fired and arrested for spreading pro-bio-terrorist propaganda.”

Dad huffed. “Nothing like living in a police state.”

Zeke didn’t concentrate on Dad’s distaste, instead confirming, “The footage that got Navarro impeached? Yeah, that’d be this guy.” 

Dr. Sims typed away for a moment, and I could see the distorted square of a window pop up in the reflection of his glasses as Dad leaned forward to read over his shoulder. “David Warner,” he read aloud to the room. “Looks like he was a…a security guard for the First Sons?”

“Is this what happens when you’re near a Ray Sphere?” Aunt Sia asked, looking down at the picture in equal parts distaste and fear. 

Dr. Sims began perusing through other pop ups. “Well, I imagine it works like mutations in animals that were born in the fallout radius of the Blast, except worse.”

“Anyone macrodosing radiation would probably end up with four arms regardless of if they’re human or Conduit,” Dad added as a joke, the ease of his words not at all reflecting the look on his face. 

Dr. Sims’ fingers settled, a pop up in his glasses’ reflection growing larger as he maximized it. “‘Subject coherent and exhibiting changes to epidermis after being exposed to the Ray Sphere for a thirteenth time,’” he began reading. 

“Thirteen?” Zeke repeated in shock, eyes so wide I could see the tops of them hovering above his sunglasses. 

“‘Subject’s initial mentalist abilities and impressive physicality have improved, that is no doubt—though not without cost.’” Dr. Sims continued. “Subject now needs a substantial amount of neuroelectricity on a biweekly basis to survive. It’s as if its body has rewired itself to depend on neural energy, constantly craving it to keep going. This dependency isn’t just a side effect; it’s a fundamental shift in its biology to the point of being able to seek out neuroelectricity. 

“‘But that’s not all; when presented with a food source, the Subject actually refused after detecting the Conduit gene within them. After Kessler demanded testing and this was proven true, he simply assigned the food source its own kennel and demanded more testing on the Subject; declared it was proof of further evolution of the gene.

“‘It’s evolving, yes, but into what? Cellular structures are changing so fast it might become pathological if we’re not careful. I can’t help but worry about the long-term implications. What if this need for neuroelectricity becomes insatiable? What if its body starts to deteriorate without it? We’re venturing into uncharted territory, and while the scientific discoveries are thrilling, the ethical and practical concerns are mounting. I need to look into stabilization of the metamorphosis of exposure. The potential here is immense, but so are the risks. Strong, formidable soldiers are necessary for the fight ahead, but futile if they have to feed on the people they’re meant to protect. We must find a way to sustain their powers without compromising their integrity.’”

“The fight ahead?” Aunt Sia asked aloud. 

“‘It,’” Brent repeated, looking at me. “You catch that?”

I did. Warner was It, Subject without a name or a history or someone to care about him beyond what he could provide in terms of research. 

Dad only glanced at us before going back to looking over Dr. Sims’ shoulder, eyes squinting a bit like it would reveal some new information to him. “He probably meant the Beast,” Dad answered Aunt Sia, chewing on his cheek. “Wolfe was one of Kesslers’ top scientists, right? Guy had to have told him about the Beast.” 

“Smell Conduits…” Zeke drew off, like the statement had meaning. “Y’know, there were two other Conduits I knew who could suss out the gene. The Beast, and Cole.”

Dr. Sims looked over his shoulder. “Cole could sense the gene in people?”

“He could see it,” Zeke corrected. “John gave him the ability when trying to convince him to join his side. Said it looked like a little glowing ball right in the chest.” He brought a hand up to hold it as a fist in the center of his chest, Dr. Sims’ head quirking to the side upon the movement. 

“That’s about where the conducrine is…” he mused before turning to the other laptop, typing away. 

“So they were making Conduits to take on the Beast?” I asked. I guess it made sense, right? To fight a war, you need an army. Kessler was proof there wasn’t enough manpower the first time, so yeah, it made sense he’d look for more. 

Even if it was in some depraved sort of way. 

“Warner’s name is mentioned in the Vermaak files,” Dr. Sims announced, going through the computer that deciphered the hard drive. “Something called a…Warner’s Threshold…” 

Dr. Sims did that a lot; jump between the computer that held the journal translations and the one that had the hard drives, cross referencing as he narrowed down what he was looking for. “Here,” he finally declared, clearing his throat slightly. “‘Repeated exposure to the Ray Sphere manifests as a double-edged sword for Conduits. While it grants them new abilities, there exists a critical threshold for irradiated Ray Field Energy absorption. Beyond this limit, adverse reactions emerge. Warner's case exemplifies this; heightened smell sensitivity coincided with progressive sight loss due to extended exposure. This delicate balance between gained abilities and physiological detriment underscores the need for a comprehensive reevaluation of RFE assimilation limits. Understanding these boundaries is vital to safeguarding Conduits' well-being amidst their transformative abilities without corrupting their being as a whole.’”

“Okay,” Dad drew out. He regarded Dr. Sims fully. “What does that mean?” 

“If the Conduit gets exposed to RFE too much, seems they start to mutate,” Aunt Sia explained. “Guess that’s why this David guy had four arms.” 

Dad stared hard at the grain of Aunt Sia’s kitchen table, brows knit. “Brent, Jean—they’ve both absorbed core relays.” he realized, raising his head to look around the room. Everywhere but at Zeke, but still. “Whatever’s happening to Jean, could it be because of that?”

Dr. Sims grimaced slightly. “I don’t…think they’d be related,” he admits. “These are two very different situations, and Brent’s not affected.”

Dad didn’t look convinced. He especially didn’t look calm. “Th–the journal—does it say anything else about the RFE intake? If there’s some sorta enhancing-to-corrupting ratio?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Dr. Sims turned to the hard drive computer and scrolled. “There’s nothing left on Warner.”

“Nothing?” Aunt Sia stressed. 

Dr. Sims shook his head, instead reading from the screen, “‘I’m still reeling from Kessler’s sudden decision to pull me off the Warner project and reassign me to New Marais. The directive came without warning or explanation, leaving me to pack up my research and relocate in a matter of days. To make matters worse, Kessler commanded that Warner be put in stasis, effectively halting all progress and declaring the project ‘done with’ despite the lack of any final results. The work we were doing in Empire City was groundbreaking, and I can't fathom why Kessler would interrupt such crucial experiments at this stage. Now, instead of continuing our promising advancements, I find myself thrust into a new and uncertain venture under Joseph Bertrand's command.’”

“Stasis?” Dad asked curiously. “Like...they threw him on ice and forgot about him?”

Zeke huffed. “Sure didn’t work. Fucker tried to eat my brain matter.”

Dr. Sims kept reading as they both spoke, eyes growing more curious the further he read. “Hey, listen to this,” he said, holding up a hand to silence them. “‘My task is to refine the integration process using retroviral vectors and to employ Ray Field Energy that will enable stable, accelerated evolution. The goal is to engineer Conduits who can replicate the abilities of a donor Conduit through the introduction of specific proteins. By successfully integrating these genetic modifications, we aim to create an army of soldiers, each with identical, highly potent abilities derived from a single powerful donor.’”

Aunt Sia exhaled hard. “Sounds familiar.” She muttered.

Dr. Sims agreed with a nod, scrolling further still. “I know. And while it looks like they figured out the acceptable sievert amount—that’s how much radiation someone can absorb before it begins affecting their soft tissues, or, in this case, their ability—they started trying to figure out how to mitigate the damage but keep the quick evolutionary benefits. So they started injecting people with liquidated raythium to try and activate them.”

Everyone flinched at that idea, Aunt Sia asking, “Jesus, and how did that go?”

“Not well,” Dr. Sims confirmed everyone’s thoughts. “Not ‘till they figured out it couldn’t only be raythium. But once they started making a concoction with artificial stress hormones, they didn’t even need a Ray Sphere to make Conduits.”

Dad cocked an eyebrow. “This is starting to sound really familiar,” he said knowingly, looking between Dr. Sims and Aunt Sia. 

The DUP. He had to be talking about them, right?

“You’re telling me.” Dr. Sims agreed, turning back to his computer. “Listen to this: ‘using retroviral integrase and advanced bioengineering techniques, CR13A successfully activated the Conduit gene in an animal model. The subject, a lab rat, demonstrated Conduit abilities mirroring those of the donor, albeit on a lesser scale. We’ve essentially created a forced Conduit—proof that we can transfer powers through genetic manipulation. And no longer will we need the sacrifice of some poor soul to grant a Conduit powers.

“‘This success opens a new chapter in our work. If we can refine this process, the implications are staggering. My next goal is to employ protein engineering to enhance this method. By designing specialized proteins, we could potentially create Conduits with tailored abilities, far surpassing the natural variations. This could lead to an evolved form of Conduits with optimized and diversified powers.’” Dr. Sims finished, looking up at Dad. 

“So that’s how they made forced Conduits…” Dad drew off thoughtfully. “What’s CR…something?”

“Conduit Retroviral Augmentation,” Dr. Sims read off. 

“So they wanted to be able to activate Conduits without the dirty work of disposing of bodies after a Ray Sphere,” Zeke hummed. “At least it cut down on lives lost.”

Dr. Sims’ lips pursed. “I wouldn’t say that.” He looked over his shoulder at Zeke. “Was there anything…wrong with the Vermaak?” 

Zeke huffed. “What wasn’t wrong with them? They were all crazier than a junebug on a string.”

Dad was the only one to react to the idiom, glancing over at Zeke like he was the one that was insane while Dr. Sims scrolled on his computer. “Do you remember why?” 

“He said something about the power transfer not supposed to be used on multiple people,” Brent chimed in instead. 

I agreed with a nod, adding, “That it would overtax the activated.” 

Dr. Sims seemed to be lost in thought as he read. “That’s nothing like what I have…”

“What do you have?” Aunt Sia asked.

Dr. Sims’ leaned forward, reading from the screen, “‘Our recent experiments with retroviral activation in humans has revealed significant drawbacks. While it appeared, at first, that basic, non-manipulated integrase do grant the Conduit abilities, they are weaker than we first predicted. What has me more concerned is our original animal subjects; their abilities have waned greatly, with significant instability to their wellbeing. Illness is rampant in our original test groups, and we’ve lost 30% of the overall batch to death. They gradually lose control over their abilities…and then themselves.’”

Dad’s jaw set as he listened to Dr. Sims speak longer, something in his eyes changing. Gradually lose control over their abilities. 

“She stopped healing first.” Dad had said in the hospital room, what felt like eons ago. “You remember! The healing went first, and then the speed, and then the fuckin’—I thought there was something wrong with her.”

Mom lost control of her powers. So did the old DUP soldiers, and apparently the Vermaak.

Was I next?

Dad seemed to be on the same wavelength as I, saying, “So they had the same issue as the DUP,” as his knuckles white-gripped Dr. Sims’ chair. 

Everyone made sure to avoid looking my way as they processed this. 

Eventually, Zeke shook his head. “That’s…not what was wrong with the Vermaak, though,” he interjected, being the first to meet my eyes and shoot me a genuine, albeit pitiful, look. I could never decide whether that was better or worse than not being acknowledged at all. “They were wild. We…there was a Vermaak soldier that defected, tried helping Cole out. Every time we saw the guy…it’s like he became less and less human.”

“How so?” Aunt Sia asked softly, hand coming up to rest on my shoulder.

Zeke crossed his arms as he stared down at the ground, trying to access a memory that looked like it was purposefully buried deep. “He’d help us out with little things. Fighting off those messed up things Bertrand made, tracking down a…a Blast core, I think. I can’t really remember. But every time we saw him, he’d be…different. I know it’s a shit way to describe it but he would evolve—his powers got stronger, he got bigger, even. But something was wrong with the guy, like, upstairs. He started muttering to himself a lot, saying things that didn’t make sense. Eventually…he became this monster, we called them titans.”

“Monster?” Dad asked. “Like Bertrand’s?”

Zeke threw his head side to side as he decided whether or not to agree with Dad, settling with, “Sort of. You remember the DUP? You had your little guys who could just throw around a bit on concrete, right? But then there were those big fish, the ones who were all decked out in concrete. There were some like that. But there were others…man, they were all ice. Like it took them over.” 

After a pause, Zeke looked back up. “The guy that was helping us? Became this big ice monster. Couldn’t control himself. It…Cole had to put him down.” 

Dad chewed on his cheek so hard I was sure he was going to rip a hole through it, before he shook his head. “But that’s not losing power,” he eventually said. 

Dr. Sims interjected, typing away on the opposite computer. “It’s not,” he confirmed, “Because the Vermaak didn’t get the basic retroviral integrase.” 

He scooted ever so slightly to the side so Dad could see it easier, reading off, “‘CR27B, augmented for enhanced physical performance, heightened cognitive functions to ensure near perfect application of powers, and evolutionary acceleration to achieve rapid and significant power enhancement.’” 

Dad used Dr. Sims’ chair as a prop as he leaned forward to look at the screen before saying, “Try CR27B, see what happens,” 

Dr. Sims looked up the word, following it past journal entries he deemed unimportant before pausing—and as his eyes scanned back and forth, his brow became more furrowed. “‘Bertrand is a fool.,’” he began reading. “‘Even before Kessler’s demise, we all had concerns about using retroviral integrase for gene activation in carriers. Now, he expects god-like production from a process still in its scientific infancy. Our efforts were meant to move away from the need for sacrificial subjects, yet he now seeks to amass an army of them—for his own profit.’” Dr. Sims scrolled a bit and I could see in his glasses’ reflection that there were sections of the journal angrily scratched out, like Wolfe messed up his writings so many times in his rage. 

“‘The buses arrived a week ago’” Dr. Sims continued once he got to the next page. “‘Long before the agreed timeframe Kessler informed me of. Bertrand immediately had me begin evaluating the new arrivals for genetic compatibility, refusing to answer any of my questions. His refusals were punctuated by threats, even brandishing his sword on one occasion.’”

Brent scoffed. “He had a sword?” He asked. “Tryhard.”

Dad shot Brent that fatherly look that said stop that without him having to actually speak, Dr. Sims continuing, “‘He ignores my warnings. The current serum is still in its preliminary testing phase, and the evolutionary acceleration is proving detrimental to the health of the forced Conduits. Illness is rampant in our first group. Splitting one Conduit’s abilities over multiple subjects is not sustainable. The transformations he seeks to impose, however, will tear them apart.

“‘By intubating subjects with a consistent protein supply and exposing them to Ray Sphere energy, I created a Conduit that evolved far quicker than any previous trials—but at a significant cost.’” Dr. Sims turned his head slightly as he read; this whole journal probably meant everything to a biochemical geneticist. “‘As the subject evolved, I observed a marked decline in mental stability. Hallucinations, both auditory and visual, led to incoherent ramblings and eventual loss of speech. When graphite began to overtake their body and they became extremely volatile, I had to euthanize the subject and perform an autopsy.  Tissue samples revealed that the subject required neuroelectricity to survive, similar to Warner. However, instead of draining this energy from others, the proteins began to consume the subject’s own neuroelectrical output, leading to severe brain damage and cognitive decline.

“‘Yet Bertrand intends to create hundreds of these unstable Conduits, planning to distribute them globally under the guise of providing security and welfare.’” Dr. Sims looked over his shoulder at Dad, finishing, “‘His ambition blinds him to the catastrophic consequences of his actions.’”

Everyone was quiet after that. I could barely hear the ringing voice of that one Vermaak soldier in my head as he asked Wolfe why he was warning him. 

“Kessler.” Aunt Sia eventually said. “Wolfe mentioned Kessler informed him of a timeframe. If Bertrand was in charge of this whole thing, why was Kessler involved?”

Zeke huffed. “Because he couldn’t help himself?” he asked with such disdain. 

It was funny how much he hated Kessler, considering who the man was. The only thing that kept me from asking him why he hated that man when it was also his best friend in another life, was how stormy Zeke’s face looked any time he was mentioned.

Dr. Sims shifted to the hard drive computer, scrolling away until one final click and a read later, he declared, “It looks like Kessler finalized a deal with the Vermaak to use them in the forced Conduit testing to prepare for ‘any threats…human or otherwise.’”

Or otherwise. 

“The Beast,” I said, everyone suddenly snapping their head my way as they remembered I was there. “That’s what the Vermaak were originally hired for.”

Dr. Sims clicked back a few times on the journal entry computer. “Wolfe’s entry on being reassigned happens three weeks after this contract,” he observed. 

“And Bertrand hated Conduits,” Brent remembered. “So once Kessler was out of the picture…he had full control over what happened to them.”

Aunt Sia moved away from behind me, setting Jerry back on the table as she moved towards the cupboards in the kitchen. “You know, it’s funny,” she began. “You realize the forced Conduits came out…wrong with the First Sons, too? The batch without that acceleration protein went through the same experience the DUP did.”

“Way quicker than the Dupes did, though.” Zeke pointed out. “I dunno how they did it, but they at least got a good couple of performances outta their monkeys.”

Dad didn’t seem to want to join in on the jokes; he left his place behind Dr. Sims, plopping down in the chair to his right and running a hand over his face. “None of this helps us, though. Sure, we know why the forced Conduits are messed up—but Jean isn’t one. She’s not growing extra arms or hallucinating or going insane. How did Archangel do to her what happened to the forced Conduits?”

No one really responded. 

At least, not verbally. 

There was a sudden poke in my side, and I turned in time to meet Brent’s eyes as he used them to motion towards Dad. He brought his hand up, finger going to his mouth and coming back down in one discreet, swell motion. Tell. 

And I just looked at him like he was stupid, mouthing What?

Brent rolled his eyes, bringing both hands into the equation as he signed Tell Dad about Mom. 

Oh, god. Hallucinations. But that couldn’t be the same as this, right? I pinched my two forefingers and my thumb together, both telling Brent no and hoping he understood that I was miming for him to shut up about it. 

Why not? He asked me, thumb running under his chin accusingly. 

I brought my fingers together in an okay sign, letting the circles connect before flaring the fingers out fully. It’s not important. 

Brent lifted his hands to say something else when we both froze at the sound of Aunt Sia clearing her throat. 

“Brent. Jean.” She said, setting the mug she pulled out on the counter and crossing her arms. Dad and Dr. Sims were looking at us now, both curiously—though Dad with a hint of annoyance. Brent and I would argue all the time around him in sign language when we didn’t want him to know what we were talking about, it always annoyed him. 

I mean, sure, it may have been for arguments about used pads or asking to borrow cash to buy a new dab pen, but we also used it to plan Dad’s birthday and Christmas gifts, so he learned to deal with it. 

But Aunt Sia? She didn’t look impressed at all. She cocked an eyebrow, and asked, “You know I know sign language, right?”