Chapter Twenty-Five

Hugo Reid stared at his reflection in the mirror of his Riverlove Run cabin. A suit and tie was considered the standard everyday dress code for anyone with a membership in the Holders. The leather gloves that he wore, though: he’d chosen to wear those himself. It simply wouldn’t do to accidentally come into physical contact with the Hawthorne woman. Should she accidentally touch his skin �" thus learning his true motives, learning of his many deceits �" it would cause great damage to the mission he’d been given. He’d have to kill her then, and, well… that would just make everything from then on unnecessarily difficult.

            He was a member of the Holders, true enough. But also, for the past several years, he’d been a member of something more… something greater… something that, as far as he could tell, no one in Kincaid Gardens even knew existed. The society that he truly belonged to was unseen; they operated within strict guidelines for secrecy. Why?

            Those within Kincaid Gardens believed Artists should live as servants in the world.

            Those within the Unseen Society believed Artists should live as rulers instead.

            He’d been secretly recruiting �" or trying to recruit �" newfound Artists to his society for a few months, as the upper echelon had ordered. It was a slow, monotonous process: find a single Artist, approach them in secret, wait several more months for another to appear. Sometimes the Artist wouldn’t even take his offer, which made it that much more frustrating. Therefore, when he got the call explaining that a group of possibly ten Artists had been found in the Savannah region, he could barely contain his excitement. It was such a high profile case that approaching them in secret was out of the question �" the Gardens would undoubtedly have their people there as well �" but he was determined to tag along.

            His orders had been clear: invite them to join us. If they refuse, they cannot be allowed to join the opposition. Do whatever it takes to see this carried out. In other words: keep the ones that say yes, kill the ones that say no, and do it quietly. Remain secret. Remain unseen.

            He’d been perusing the profiles he’d gotten from Ian Erlander for hours. Who to approach first?

            The one listed as Vivian van Valen was on top. Strangely, his society was reporting low numbers of Artists of the Blue. The profile Natalia Hawthorne had written on her gave him little hope that the girl would be willing to join him. Everything written about her reeked of the same servitude ideals that the Gardens look for. He’d proposition Ms. van Valen anyway, just to be sure. He would need to do this in a secluded area, though, so that when he killed her afterwards he would have no trouble disposing of her corpse.

            The next profile: Nicolle Darling. He already knew a little on this one that wasn’t in the written profile; Timothy Stoker was obsessed with her. He rarely talked about her openly, but nearly all of his answers to Reid’s interview questions somehow led back to her. She was nearly the same as Vivian van Valen �" the same goody attitude �" but there was hope: a footnote explained that Ms. Darling thirsted for meaning in her life, for purpose and fulfillment. Perhaps he could work with that...

            He moved on. Elijah Beaumont and Dominic Beaumont: unquestionably the most talented of the ten, and the most well-known. He would work very hard to bring them to his cause. And even if they said no, he’d been given strict orders to not kill them. Restrict them, perhaps, but nothing more. He wondered why.

            Jackson McKay came next. Multiple cases of flamboyant use of Artistry, multiple cases of unethical use of Artistry; a footnote explained that Mr. McKay would likely be placed on probation once they arrived at the Gardens. His apparent thirst for attention would have to be remedied, but otherwise Jackson McKay was a prime candidate for the goals of his society.

            That was fortunate, because Reid was scheduled to meet him in twenty minutes.

            Laying the profiles aside, he walked to his suitcase and withdrew a handgun. He placed it in its holster on the inside of his suit, checked himself out in the mirror one last time, and walked out the front door.

            Jackson came alone, as requested, his Hummer parked beneath the bridge itself. Narrows Bridge was what Jackson had identified it as; all that mattered was that it was seldom used. There were virtually no houses in the area, no places to work, nor was hunting allowed; on top of that, the road only led to a dead end. Reid had calculated a two-point-seven percent chance that another person would intrude upon them there. Good enough.

            Reid climbed out of his Lincoln and smiled that same ear-to-ear smile of the character he’d created while at Kincaid Gardens. Jackson did not smile back; his arms were crossed at the chest, leading Reid to wonder if that was a method of charging energy for the Artist of the Red. Trying to look inconspicuous, Reid laid a hand on his side, feeling for the added security of his gun.

This would be brief: either McKay became an ally right here or died right here. Four to Eight minutes, tops.

            “Mr. Jackson McKay… thank you for coming.”

            Jackson nodded, looking Reid from top to bottom. “What do you want?”

            “Wasting no time, hm?” Reid feigned a chuckle. “I understand entirely, I admire efficiency. Mr. McKay, I have an offer to make of you. But before I do, allow me to ask you, son… do you crave a life of conscience? A life of meaning?”

            Jackson shrugged. “I guess. Who cares? What’s that got to do with anything? Spit it out.”

            Reid smiled again, stretching it as far across his face as he could. He had half a mind to blow Mr. McKay’s brains out right then; the Society was far more important than his vengeful impulses, though. “Mr. McKay, you’ve been recognized as an uncommonly talented individual… and my people value such individuals. I’m going to be as forthcoming with you as I can be… I am not with Kincaid Gardens. I represent another group… one that believes that Artists �" such as yourself �" are not intended to be left in the dark, unable to show their beautiful eyes to the world. My group believes that Artists are meant no to serve, but to lead.”

            Jackson’s eyes furrowed. Reid had calculated an eighty-nine percent chance that Jackson would say yes; those odds dropped by seven percent. “What?”

            “I apologize for beating around the bush, as the saying goes, Mr. McKay. Natalia Hawthorne and Ian Erlander represent Kincaid Gardens, and they want to recruit you there so that you can continue to live in secret, serving others like proverbial elves sneaking around. I am fooling them, however. I come from another organization, one hoping to… usurp… Kincaid Gardens. We have no intention of staying in the dark… it was not intended. No… why should we follow non-Artist laws and governments when we can make our own?”

            Jackson’s brow relaxed; his eyes widened, his lips parted; the feeblest twitch at the corners of his mouth, the makings of a smile. Ninety-two-point-three percent.

            “Join us, Mr. McKay. The Unseen Society values minds and muscles such as your own. Let us build the new world together.”

            Reid extended a hand… not his gun hand, in case it was needed.

            It was not. Jackson took Reid’s hand and shook it.

            One down.

 

            There were two objects sitting on Timmy’s desk in his room. One was the box for a video game, The Tower of Gilgamesh IV. The other was the ruined music box he’d gotten for Nicolle long ago, the music box that he’d intended to give her the night of the Eclipse Bowl. Timmy had merely been walking by when he noticed the two objects, and it suddenly occurred to him that they represented two things that were part of his past, two things that had no part of his future: immaturity and Nicolle Darling.

            Timmy stepped out of his bedroom and walked to the front door. His mother sat on the living room sofa; her face darkened at his appearance. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, watching her.

            “What?” He barked. Somewhere in his heart it pained him to see his mother jump at his words.

            “You’re leaving again…? You’re never home anymore, Timmy… are you even going to school when you leave out in the mornings…?”

            Timmy inhaled and exhaled quickly and impatiently, looking away from her. “Stop talking to me like I’m a baby, mother. Stop it.”

            “But you’re my baby,” she said; he peeked at her and realized she was starting to cry. “We used to t-talk all the t-t-time… we don’t talk anymore… what’s happening to you, sweetie? C-come sit with me, please…”

            Timmy stared at her for a moment, his face giving away nothing. Hidden deep inside his heart, the old Timmy lived on; the old Timmy bawled at the sight of his mother’s sadness, and wanted nothing more than to run to her and hug her and share a cup of tea with her…

The old Timmy? No, the weak Timmy. The one that was always bullied, always stepped on, always spat upon. And who sculpted him into that spineless creature? It was the very woman now crying to him from across the room, he believed. She filled his childhood with false hopes for a fairytale life, never preparing him for the utter hell that was reality.

Without giving her a reply, Timmy opened the door and walked out.

Hugo Reid wanted to talk to him about something. “A proposal,” Reid had said. Timmy was in no hurry; he supposed the next time he saw the man they could discuss it. His mind was on other things as he climbed into his car and began for Riverlove Run.

One last time. He’d made up his mind: he would give Nicolle one last opportunity. If she gave him a positive answer… then maybe things could be different. Maybe they could grow and do good in the world together. If she gave him a negative answer… then no more. He would never talk to her again. Reid had mentioned that, as an Artist of the Purple, he possessed an Artistry that allowed him the ability to erase memories. Perhaps Timmy would have him annihilate his memory of Nicolle existing altogether. That would be better than living in hate, thinking about her and Elijah Beaumont together…

            Timmy had dedicated many nights to the fantasy of he and Nicolle together; he’d even, in a lifetime past, created a file on Tower of Gilgamesh IV in which two elves, named Timothy and Nicolle, married and had a life together. Timmy dreamt of sliding her shirt over her head, of touching her skin and seeing her smile, of… loving her. Yet when she looked at him she was repulsed. It was Elijah Beaumont that got her smiles.

            When Timmy pulled up in front of the cabin

            speak ye of the devil and he shall appear

            Nicolle and Elijah were standing out in front of it on the bridge. They had been laughing before he drove up; now they watched him with uneasy eyes. His hands shook with anger… and yet…

            One last time.

            Timmy stepped from the car and walked slowly to the foot of the bridge. Even now, after all his growth and changes, he was shamed to see that enough of his old self existed to make him look down at the ground, unable to meet their stares.

            “Timmy,” Nicolle said. She didn’t sound unhappy; she actually sounded a little surprised to see him.

            He looked up at her. “Hello, Nicolle.”

            Elijah Beaumont said nothing, watching Timmy carefully. Timmy gave consideration to using what Reid had dubbed Yellow Mark: Commandment to order Elijah to kill himself, or at the very least leave the area. He decided not to: that would hurt whatever feeble chances existed with Nicolle now…

            One last time.

            “May I speak with Nicolle in private?” Timmy asked, mentally cursing himself for asking permission. Who was he, Timothy Stoker, Artist of the Yellow, to ask anything? He reiterated: “I’ll speak with Nicolle in private now.”

            Elijah looked at him with raised eyebrows, unconvinced of Timmy’s authority. He looked to Nicolle and she gave him a little smile.

            “Just a moment, Eli,” she said. “It’ll be okay.”

            Eli she called him. Like they were best friends or something. He, Timothy Stoker, Artist of the Yellow, was her best friend… he had given everything for her…

            “Okay,” Elijah Beaumont said, giving Timmy one last threatening look before walking back inside. A strong breeze ripped across the treetops, causing leaves to rain down on them. It was a truly romantic scene. Once the door closed, and it was just he and Nicolle, Timmy’s heart began to race.

            “Would you come take a walk with me?” Timmy asked.

            Nicolle did not reply immediately. But then she nodded. “Sure.”

            They set off along nature’s path, leaving the cabin behind. Timmy’s heart had hope, but his mind already knew the answer: this was the last time he would ever talk to Nicolle Sabrana Darling.

           

            How many times in the past several years had she walked with Timmy through the hallways of Maple Hill High? Hundreds? Thousands? Never once had she given much thought to it, but now she did. Almost always she’d been in front, walking with her head down at a brisk pace, while Timmy followed behind like a child afraid of separating from his mother in a crowd. She likely would never have thought about it had she not noticed the difference from then and now: now they walked slowly, side by side, neither of them looking up from the leafy path much. In the old days Timmy would have narrowed the distance between them as much as possible without directly touching her; now a good five feet separated them.

            They had begun the school year as normal lowlifes, nerds beyond the notice of the attractive and admired students; now they were both Artists and everything had changed, from the way they dressed to the people they spent their time with to the looks on their faces. Everything had changed.

            “How’ve you been?” Nicolle asked, kicking a stone down the length of the lonely road.

            Timmy waited a long time to answer; she knew he was weighing just how truthful to be. “I’ve been fair. Yourself?”

            “Not bad,” she said.

            For nearly twenty seconds they walked in uncomfortable silence.    

            “How’s your mom?” Nicolle asked.

            He sighed. “She’s fair too. Yours?”

            Nicolle shrugged and smiled. “Oh, you know… same old crap. Yesterday she called me a dog-faced w***e-dog. Loving as ever.”

            A part of her expected him to do as he once would have and offer up a ten minute defense for her, logically breaking down why her mother was wrong. Instead he didn’t reply.

            “Are you and Elijah Beaumont dating now?” Timmy asked.

            The question shocked her. Nicolle was tempted to give him a little of the classic it isn’t any of your business routine, as seen in a million movies, but instead opted for: “No… we’re not.” It was true, anyway, and he would sense that. He’d probably even become happier from it, which was the entire point of walking with him. She wasn’t his friend anymore, if she ever had been in the first place, but she didn’t want him looking upset all the time…

            “Perhaps that’s not my business,” Timmy conceded, not sounding very contrite.

            “Remember the time Mr. Meister asked you if you’d watch his rabbit?” Nicolle forced a how funny was that smile onto her face. She’d been digging for a memory for them to reminisce over for minutes and was coming up terribly short. “The thing was feral or something, we chased it all over the lab before�"”

            “Nicolle.”

            He’d spoken her name in a tone she hadn’t heard since before his Artistry had awakened. The old Timmy was making a rare appearance. Nicolle turned and realized that he’d stopped walking a few feet back and was looking at her with an expression of passionate vulnerability, the expression a sentenced man would likely wear in his final plea to the judge.

            “… what is it?”

            Yes, this was without a doubt the old Timmy; he was swallowing a lot and seemed on the verge of tears. Nicolle was suddenly nervous. She knew what he wanted and also knew she could not give it to him.

            “Don’t, Timmy,” she begged. “Just don’t. Let’s just keep walking.”

            He didn’t move. His eyes were watery. “Let’s forget everyone, everything. Please, Nicolle. We can… we can use our powers to do so much together, no one would ever want to mess with us again, things would be different from before… we can go to Tybee Lighthouse together, tonight, even…”

            Nicolle looked away. This was not going to end well. This�"

            “Don’t turn away from me!” Timmy yelled, a tear spilling down his cheek. “Not this time! Hear me when I’m talking, Nicolle, I’m a real person, too!”

            “You think I don’t know that? I spent three years with you when no one else would, don’t accuse me of not listening.”

            “We can leave tonight, Nicolle,” Timmy said, the subject changing in a flash. “We can see the sun rise on the lighthouse, like you always wanted.”

            Nicolle was staring into the far ditch of the road, away from him. She didn’t respond. Why was he making this hard on her…? He’d known the answer to all of this forever ago.

            “Nicolle!” Timmy screamed, a shrill sound that sounded eerily feminine. “Look at me! If no one else will listen when I talk, please, you listen!”

            “I’ve always listened,” Nicolle said calmly, still looking away.

            “I love you.”

            Nicolle’s head whipped around at the words. They stared at each other for several seconds, neither breaking eye contact. His eyes were pleading with her to say it back.

            “I’m sorry, Timmy,” Nicolle said. Her throat was constricting; her vision blurred with withheld tears. To her horror, he sank to his knees and interlaced his fingers in front of him. “Timmy, stop…”

            “I’m begging you! Who else would want me?! I’m fat and I’m ugly, I know, but I’m smart, and I’m friendly, and I love you!”

Never had she seen him look this way, even in his hardest moments; his face was broken into an unrecognizable mask of torment, his mouth turned down in the most heart wrenching frown. Perhaps this was his hardest moment…

            “I… I’m sorry,” Nicolle said, shaking her head, looking at the ground.

            “We can leave tonight,” he added pitifully. “I love you, Nicolle.”

            Nicolle continued to shake her head.

            “Please,” he begged.

            “No,” she said softly.

            “Please.”

            “No.” A tear fell to the dirt.

            “ARGGHHHHHH!” Timmy screamed, bolting to his feet. His cry was not wounded; it was angry… enraged. Within a moment of standing he was moving towards her at a fast walk, his eyes rolling with fury, his hands reaching for her blindly. Nicolle was momentarily petrified to her spot, too shocked and frightened to move; he was almost directly on top of her when at last she jumped away, intending to sprint all the way back to the cabin. He caught her by the sleeve and dragged her back to him, holding her tight by the shoulders.

            “WAS I EVER YOUR FRIEND IN THE FIRST PLACE?!” He screamed, tears and spit peppering the air. “ANSWER ME!!”

            “TIMMY, LET ME GO!�"”

            Less than an inch from her face, shaking her like a doll: “ANSWER MEEEEEEE!”

            “NO! I WASN’T!! ALRIGHT?? NOW YOU KNOW!!”

            With the scream of a dying man Timmy took hold of her by the shirt, lifted her into the air, and threw her with all of his strength, all one hundred and five pounds. She flipped in the air, her legs going over her head, and crashed into the ditch on her shoulder.

            She opened her eyes. The world was upside down.

            Tingling as if shocked, Black Mark: Touch of Death surged into her hands.

            “Arrggh!” Nicolle yelled as she struggled back to her feet, leaves falling from her hair. She crouched, making claws of her fingers, preparing to stand her ground.

            The anger that had driven Timmy moments ago was gone; now he looked at his hands in shock and then up to Nicolle in pain.

            “Nicolle, I’m s-sorry,” he moaned. “I…I…”

            “LEAVE ME ALONE, TIMMY! DON’T COME NEAR ME AGAIN! EVER!”

            “Nicolle… … Nicolle, please…”

            She began to walk away at a brisk pace. He followed her, coming up at her shoulder.

            “Nicky, listen to me, I’m sorry…”

            With the speed of a cobra Nicolle spun around and cracked a slap across his face, sending his glasses askew. A breath or two passed where neither of them said a thing. Then, realizing what had just happened, he began to cry in earnest.

            “I-I-I d-deserved t-that… I-I’m s-s-sorry N-Nicolle, please d-don’t hate m-me… I love you…”

            “Goodbye, Timmy,” Nicolle said, and she left him there, sobbing into his hands.

           

            “So, like… will we be in classes… or…?”

            Vee barely Elyse’s question; she wasn’t listening with her physical ears so much as with her mental ears, searching outside the cabin for the thoughts of Nicolle or Timmy Stoker. She got nothing; wherever they were it was outside of her telepathy range.

            “With other student Artists, you mean?” Ian asked. “Yes, it’s arranged much the same as any school would be.”

            “What will we be studying…?” Elyse asked with excited eyes.

            “Revealed History,” Natalia said, checking off on her fingers, “Elanology… Artist Literature…”

            “What’s elanology?” Peter asked, his voice barely audible.

            “The study of Artistry,” Ian said. “The science of it.”

            “There’s a Cooking for Artists course as well,” Natalia continued. “And there is also a medical course for anyone desiring to become a doctor of Artists.”

            Elyse looked over to Elijah, as if this would interest him; Vee supposed that just because he could heal didn’t mean he’d want to make a career of it. Elijah wasn’t paying any attention anyway; his eyes were on the door, watching, waiting for Nicolle.

            “Cooking for Artists sounds interesting,” Elyse said. “So, what… do you learn to cook foods that help your Artistry or something?”

            “Yes, some diets can influence Artistry to an extent,” Ian said. “Nothing huge, but some. I have a friend, a fellow Expeditionary, who eats almost exclusively steak. Claims it makes him more fearsome.” Ian smiled at this good naturedly.

            Dominic reentered the room from the kitchen, a glass of something in hand. The look on his face told Vee that something was on his mind; before she could extract it herself he spoke up, directing his words to Ian.

            “The lights have gotten closer,” he said solemnly. “They seem to have sped up a little toward the end… I’m having a hard time putting an estimate on their arrival.”

            “If you had to, though,” Natalia said. “What would that estimate be?”

            Dominic shrugged. “A few days. It’s hard to tell.”

            Already plans had been set aside in regards of how to handle it the day the lights finally arrived. Dominic had requested that he be entirely alone that day, to up the odds that it would only affect him and no one else. Despite Vee’s protests Natalia and Ian granted him that, with the exception that they be nearby to assist him if need be. The location they chose for this was a secluded lot nearby a hospital, just in case Elijah for some reason wasn’t near to cure whatever ailments may occur. Planning that entire thing made Vee sick. For so long they had been watching his Up-and-Coming Artistry… and it was almost there.

            Vee wasn’t one for living in the past �" “look to tomorrow, forget past sorrow”, as her mom said �" but she still gave in to the impulse to reminisce for a moment. She remembered when her Artistry awakened; her first clue wasn’t the Blue Eyes but the voice of her mother in her head downstairs. It was later that she saw the color change, how her eyes had gone from dark dull green to the vibrant Blue that now defined her.

Nothing was ever the same from then on; she knew the thoughts of her mother and father, of her classmates, of her teachers, both good and bad thoughts, noble and shameful. She hadn’t even bothered to cover her eyes with sunglasses on that first day back. She didn’t know what an Artist was, or an Artistry. Not until the last class of the day, when a boy introduced himself to her as Dominic Beaumont… and then, introduced her to the world she now lived in.

She remembered the first Artist they ever found abroad. Elyse published her abnormal change of eye color on her internet page, freaking out pretty badly from it. Dominic, Elijah, and herself all hopped into Dom’s Cherokee and drove the two-hundred miles to reach her, to explain to her what she’d become. Shortly after she and her family moved to Savannah; from then on Elyse was part of the Chess Club and her reaction was much the same as Vee’s had been: excitement, hope, and a desire to learn and grow. She had come a long way from then, some two years ago, now sitting near Vee talking to “Expeditionaries” about Kincaid Gardens…

The years passed: they recruited the Evil Three next, and relatively soon after Maria came. And then there was Nicolle. She discovered Nicolle herself; that day in Mr. Browning’s class where, at Nicolle’s touch, that flower wilted away. Their first Artist of the Black… and Vee’s best friend. So much had happened since that day Nicolle walked into Room 44. Eli and Presley broke up; Nicolle and Eli became closer. Maria passed away. The Eclipse Bowl, and the fight in the parking lot, and the arrival of Natalia and Ian…

Vee felt as if she were standing on the edge of the ocean, and though the sun was shining beautifully at the moment, in the distance, fast approaching, was a sea storm, dark clouds and thunderheads rolling inland.

 A few days, Dom had said.

Vee had never been the kind to make the first move. So… she hoped that, at some point between now and the sea storm crashing ashore… he would.

 

            The night was very cloudy, blocking out any sight of the moon. Reid sat in the dark cab of his Lincoln, parked just off the road and out of sight. Waiting for her to drive by.

            Already he had phoned in his recent successes. Jackson McKay had come first, accepting the offer to join the Unseen Society. After that Darius Geldart said yes, and after that… with a pinch more difficulty… Brooklyn McKenna accepted as well. There would be no waiting until graduation, as Natalia Hawthorne and Ian Erlander believed. No… the ones that he claimed for himself would be moved very soon. A car was already being arranged to be waiting for them on the assigned day; they would be driven to a hidden place, far from the eyes of the servants of the secret Garden, and an Artist of the Green from the Society would teleport them to a classified location faraway. From there, each of them would be briefed, a new profile would be built, emphasizing their beliefs, strengths, and weaknesses, and beyond that Reid wasn’t sure what would happen. He didn’t know what the Society had in mind for them. As an Artist of the Purple not knowing anything made him uncomfortable, but it was beyond his security clearance to know.

            The First’s word was law. Reid simple obeyed.

It had already occurred to Reid that with such a large number of young Artists vanishing from right under the Garden’s noses his true motives may be impossible to disguise once all was said and done, thus returning to his Kincaid Gardens home unachievable. The Second assured him that his quarters at the Gardens would be emptied out and his things available for him outside of the Gardens if it came to that. Still, if at all possible, the goal was to remain on at the Gardens for as long as possible�"

Headlights appeared in the distance, approaching slowly, snapping Reid to attention. The profile said that she drove a PT Cruiser. He waited for the vehicle to pass him by, holding his breath as he did…

… it was a PT Cruiser. That was Elyse Robinson.

Time to move.

Reid turned the car on and pulled out into the road. He knew those roads fairly well, getting himself acquainted with them before deciding to take this course of action. The odds of them being interrupted in the back roads were about ten percent, depending on where she pulled off at. He would try to lead her away, perhaps into the trees a little…

Reid’s headlights illuminated the back of the PT Cruiser. Once he felt that they were in a good area he flicked his lights from bright to normal again, trying to get her attention. If she was a good girl she’d probably continue driving to her home, which would force him to turn around and plan something else for her on another day…

Her attention caught: the PT Cruiser slowed and fell away to the side of the road, coming to a stop probably ten miles from where she lived. If she gave Reid the correct answers to the questions he asked, she would continue on her way and see her mother and father again (the profile identified them as Elayne and Walton Robinson) and sleep in her own bed tonight. He hoped she did… he was a sucker for happy endings.

Reid casually climbed out of the Lincoln, waving at her cheerfully as he did, unsure if she saw or not. Crunch, crunch, crunch, the gravel popped beneath his feet as he walked up to her window. He’d hoped she would get out of her vehicle with him… that would make things so much easier. She was choosing to stay in her seat and roll down the window, though… he preferred more control over the situation than that gave him…

She smiled at him out of her window as he approached. The smile seemed genuine, unlike his own.

“Mr. Reid?” She asked; in the background pop music played on the radio, weakening his ability to hear oncoming traffic. He cursed silently; nothing was going ideal. He also noticed that she still had the vehicle in drive, not park, and was just holding down the break with her foot, thus increasing her odds of driving away after hearing his proposal. Odds of success? Thirty-point-two percent.

He tried to widen his smile.

“Hello, hello,” he said, giving her a small bow. “I’m sorry to flag you down like this�"”

“Oh, no, it’s okay! No problem�"”

“�"I hope I didn’t spook you, dear �"”

“No, no,” she laughed, waving away the suggestion with the hand not on the wheel. “Not at all. Is everything okay…?”

He took a deep breath. “Actually, if you have a moment, could you step out of the car…? I’d like to perhaps ask you some things that cannot wait until morning…”

The slightest movement in her brow, almost beyond noticing… she was concerned.

“Um… okay,” she said. She put the car in park �" fifty-point-seven percent �" and killed the engine �" seventy-three-point-four percent. Then she unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out of the vehicle. Nintey-six-point-one percent chance of success.

… but what were the odds of her saying yes? At the moment: Twenty-three-point-five percent.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing slightly again. “If we could just step over here for a moment… nice, pretty oak tree here to stand beneath…”

“Is everything okay, Mr. Reid?” Elyse asked, hesitantly walking with him. She added with a smile: “My mom’ll flip out pretty crazy if I’m not home soon, calling up all the relatives and everything…”

“I’ll not keep you long then, my dear,” Reid said with a chuckle. It was very dark now, with their headlights turned off. He could hear no noise in the distance; they would go undisturbed tonight. Brilliant. He turned to face her now. “Ms. Robinson, I have an offer to make of you. But before I do, I’d like to ask you… do you crave a life of conscience? A life of meaning?”

            That movement in her brow was now very noticeable, as was the slight turning down at the corners of her mouth. She was confused. Perhaps troubled.

            “Yes, sir,” she said. “I do. I’ve always strived to make my life something my parents would be proud of.”

            “Excellent!” Reid said, clapping his hands together. Odds of acceptance: thirty-three-point-seven percent. “I believed you would say so. An Artist such as yourself, undoubtedly, that will be achieved. However, I would prefer if you knew all of your options before planning your future with Lady Hawthorne and Sir Erlander. Yes?”

            She wasn’t even bothering to smile anymore. She was certainly confused, probably wondering why this couldn’t wait until morning. But she answered with a nod and: “Yes sir.”

He cleared his throat. “I belong to an organization outside of Kincaid Gardens, my dear. In truth, the goals and intentions of my organization and I differ some from those of Kincaid Gardens. Do you follow me, dear?”

She nodded, taking a quick look back to the road. “Yes sir.”

“Those of Kincaid Gardens have an agenda planned of secret servitude for their people, to live their lives hiding who they really are from the world, following non-Artist governments and laws. My group, however… my society believes that Artists were intended by God to lead, not follow… you understand, dear?”

Elyse nodded, saying nothing. Once again she looked back to her vehicle.

“I’m inviting you tonight to join us, Elyse,” Reid said. The mask that he wore slowly slid off, dropping the jester-like smile, the higher octave of voice falling away, replaced by the serious demeanor Reid naturally had. “To become part of the Unseen Society… to become part of something to make your parents proud.”

He waited for her response. She didn’t say anything. Was she scared? Yes? Yes. Or at the very least she was uneasy. Seven-point-two percent.

            “Will you join us?” Reid asked. No dear this time, no smiles.

            “I, um…” Elyse said, shuffling in her spot. She looked back to her PT Cruiser again. “I should probably go call my mom, she’s probably worrying by now�"”

            “Will you join us?” Reid interrupted, and she startled, looking at him with wide untrusting eyes. Zero-point-five percent.

            “I have to go call my mom,” Elyse said. Her voice was choked with worry.

            “Is that a yes or a no?” Reid asked, his tone unintentionally fierce.

            Elyse licked her lips and took a step back, never taking her eyes off of him. “Are you going to hurt me, Mr. Reid…? Please don’t hurt me�"”

            “Ms. Robinson, I�"”

            “Please. I’ve never done anything to anybody,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please. I want to go home, please don’t hurt me.”

            “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

            She gasped; with the urgency of a spooked animal she turned and ran, racing for her vehicle. Too late did Reid realize his mistake: she was an Artist of the Yellow… she could detect lies…

            He withdrew his silenced pistol from the inside of his suit, pointed it at her back, and fired two shots. She collapsed three feet away from her PT Cruiser. In the interest of being completely thorough, he walked up to her crumpled body, covered in dirt and gravel, and emptied three more bullets into her. He shook his head in disappointment. A real pity. His superiors would not be happy to learn he lost one.

            Too bad for her, he thought. She could have been part of something wonderful; now she was simply dead. He would have to work much of the night to skillfully dispose of the body and vehicle. No one would ever see Elyse Robinson again.

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