The Darkest Legacy (Darkest Min - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,48
and they’re guaranteed to get out. The images of the facility I saw make it look like the height of luxury compared to what we had.” I hadn’t thought to ask before now, but I was curious. “I take it you weren’t in a camp, then?”
He shook his head. “No. We survived on the outside. We weren’t ever in the camp system.”
“How?” I asked. I’d lived rough with the others for a time, and it had been nearly impossible to stay ahead of skip tracers and PSFs. Even civilians looking to make a rare quick buck by reporting a sighting were a threat to us. I wondered if the government had any official record of Roman and Priyanka at all.
“We found a vacant house and stayed there,” he said, rubbing the back of his scarred hand with his other thumb. The words were remote. Practiced. “A neighbor brought us food.”
It was an appropriate lie, somehow. That kind of thing only happened in dreams.
“What was it like,” he asked, “being in the camp?”
“What’s there to know that’s not already out there?” I asked. “It was a prison in every sense of the word. They controlled everything about our lives, including when we slept, and when and what we ate. They had us work to keep busy. It was like walking through hell soaked with gasoline and trying to avoid being set on fire.”
The churlishness left a bitter taste in my mouth, and an uncomfortable silence between us. After a moment, I said, “It was like living with your heart in a cage. Nothing escaped. Nothing got in.”
At home, before Caledonia, before the Collection, before I’d ever manifested my power, I’d grown up hearing stories passed down from older relatives about their time in internment camps here in America during the Second World War. I’d known the government had forcibly imprisoned Japanese Americans and seized their property, subjecting its own citizens to a harsh existence simply because of the belief that anyone of Japanese descent was dangerous by default. And still, when the bus that took me and a number of other kids to Ohio had rolled through Caledonia’s gates, I’d been naïve enough—young enough—to hope that this “rehabilitation center” would be everything they promised on the news: a medical program to keep us alive, an isolated school, and a place where we could live without fear.
The experiences weren’t the same, and there was no real comparison to be made between them. I only wished I had listened to the stories more carefully, that I could have somehow made that history feel more immediate to me, because I think knowing not to hope for the best, recognizing that the government and the president weren’t always paternal figures that wanted to care for us, would have saved me some small bit of pain.
“I’m sorry you were made to go through that,” he said in that quiet voice of his. “I understand why you work so hard for the Psi.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, because I didn’t want to agree. I didn’t want there to be anything shared between us.
Priyanka appeared at the door to the bathroom, carefully shutting it behind her. She glanced toward the diner, checking to make sure the people inside had their backs turned, before crossing the street.
The pressure in my chest had built to the point of exploding. “Actually,” I said, opening the door, “I think I’m ready for a little break.”
I shut it behind me, not making eye contact as I passed Priyanka. She turned, tracking my path to the bathroom. As I neared the building, the server walked out from behind the counter and moved toward the windows to start cleaning the tables.
I ducked down and crawled forward until I was just under them, waiting. Warm, damp air filled my lungs and smoothed against my skin.
“Suzume Kimura, the Psi responsible for the horrific attack at Penn State, worked in her office!”
Every muscle in my body tightened at the sound of my name in Joseph Moore’s silky voice coming from the television inside.
“Interim President Cruz was never elected to her position, but was instead appointed by her UN puppet masters. Every bad deal she accepts from them attacks the interests of everyday, hardworking Americans. She has lined the pockets of our foreign overlords and, instead of shaping the generation of Psi, she’s only managed to nurture their radical elements. How can her judgment be trusted? How can she be impartial on the subject of Psi,