Slider tried to piece together the time he lost.
He had chosen to fight against Williams. Slider looked around warily.
Yes, he was definitely at the Facility.
This was his home, wasn’t it?
He smelled smoke and saw red flames coming from the general direction of the Research Hospital.
Did I have something to do with that?
He looked down at himself again, looking for scorch marks. He held his T-shirt up to his face and inhaled. No, the only smoke he smelled was cigarette, not the scent of burning wood.
He was sitting on the front stoop of the Administration building. The squeaking of the chains on the obstacle course southwest from his position could be heard as clearly as if he were sitting beside them. The night breeze came from the east, so not only was the sound coming toward Slider, but so was the smoke from the burning hospital.
It was obviously the middle of the night. He estimated he’d lost three or four hours of time.
What the hell happened? He kept asking himself, willing the answer to come to him.
Slider took another deep drag willing the nicotine to clear his cloudy brain—to no avail.
He spat into the dry grass beside him, reached out and took a deep swig of the red wine from the glass sitting innocently beside him.
Nothing made sense, so he allowed the void to swallow him even as he swallowed the red wine. It splashed heartily in his otherwise empty stomach—the alcohol rushing to taint his blood, to dull his sense. That’s exactly what he wanted.
The trees were thick with leaves. When was the last time he paid attention to the trees? What season was it? Was it supposed to be so warm? Seasons blurred. Nothing mattered, did it?
As long as he kept this buzz going, there were no worries, no commitments left unmet, no soul blackened by anything. What soul?
His laughter startled him not only with the loud volume but with the raspy cynicism, too.
The metal on metal squeaking caused by the midnight breeze swinging the objects shouldn’t bother him, should they? They were more like a lullaby. Isn’t it time for rest? Hadn’t he earned sleep? He sighed deeply, letting the smoke jet from his nostrils unnoticed.
Alone.
He was always alone.
He squinted at the thought.
Hadn’t he found others? Had there been others helping him? Yes, maybe.
His mind was starting to lose the little memory he had maintained of his lost hours—like waking from a dream and having the memories of it start to dissipate with each wakeful breath.
Maybe he had found others who wanted to know him and believe in him. Hadn’t he chosen to work with them toward—?
The pain in his head hit hard enough for him to grimace and bury his head into his knees that he’d instinctively pulled tight against himself.
There was nothing left, again.
Nothing.
All he had was the pack of smokes and bottle of red wine beside him.
He lifted the bottle of wine and tried to read the label…the words were written in another language. Russian?
The smokes lay beautifully pure white beside him. He reached to grab another and used the nub of the still barely burning one to ignite the next. A deep drag caused the new cigarette to give him the rush of nicotine he craved. Reaching out with a thick hand, he found the bottle of wine and lifted it straight to his lips, tossing it back for a thick, deep soul-quenching gulp or three. It slipped down his throat as easily as water, leaving his lips numb and lickable.
Who am I?
Why am I here?
Where have I been?
Slider sat quietly—deadly still except for the throbbing behind his eyes.
Chapter 30 Arkdone’s Psychiatric Rehabilitation and Education
“I was expecting twelve,” Senator Arkdone scowled at the paperwork detailing the shipment of metahumans. Dr. Bjorn stood resisting the urge to bite his nails, as was his self-mutilating habit. He would bite them and the surrounding skin so severely; he had bloody fingertips from it. It was painful, but that was the point.
At work, the latex gloves he wore kept his blood to himself. He especially liked to add a sprinkle of salt into each glove before slipping his gnawed up fingers into them. No soothing cornstarch powder for him. He enjoyed the pain far too much. Where would be the fun in soothing his pain away?