The Sight

Chapter 1 - I experience vivid hallucinations of a terrifying nature

I have always seen monsters.
As long as I can remember, I've had visions of monsters. Not when I wake, or when I sleep. In the day, just anywhere. Out on the street I'll see flash of a great wolf with red eyes, blood dripping from its teeth. A distant shriek of something entirely unnatural. On my tenth birthday I looked up into the sky and saw a winged creature circling above. Usually it's less seeing them, than the screaming. Scuffles in the walls. A neighbor who only goes out at night and won't come in unless invited. They don't harm me. It's like they're watching me. And I've always been this way.
Thankfully they have pills for that now.
Fifteen foster homes and counting, I'm drugged as much out of coherence as possible. I should stop telling people I see monsters but I thought they ought to know. The current set of drugs was working until a dragon swooped down from the sky and picked up an entire double decker bus full of screaming people. The dragon is well twice as large as the bus itself, with huge black wings, and enough teeth to make me shiver. It simply swoops down with surprising speed and snatches the bus up. The people inside are screaming and I instinctively reach for a weapon I would not be able to use appropriately. I am armed with nothing because of this sort of situation.
This time the crowd around me reacts and I'm validated for about twenty seconds.
"Did you see that?" I stutter, pointing at the sky.
"Yes come on—let's get back," Abigail, my current foster mom, takes my arm securely. A former cop, she has a soft spot for fourteen year olds with psychiatric disorders.
"No—no right there, did you—," I break off, prepared to describe what I think I saw and dropping it. Of course she didn't.
"That bus exploded, it must have been a car bomb. This city," she says, guiding me firmly away, one tattooed hand tight on my forearm to guide me through the crowd.
"I just—no I saw—something in the sky did you see that? Like maybe a drone?" I offer.
"It's okay, that was scary, come on, we need to get home," she says, calmly. At least she doesn't freak out when I talk about something that isn't there. Foster family number 4 was just hyper, that Griffen was about to charge and if it had been real they would have thanked me for knocking over that grill in its path.
"No I saw something—something, these meds have been fine," I say.
"And that was really upsetting and we'll talk at home okay?" Abigail says, firmly.
I sigh, shouldering my backpack. She's not going to pick me up from school again at this rate. Not if I start saying bus fires are monster attacks.
"Come on, we're good," she says, giving me a tight lipped smile. I'll accept her cop-voice at the moment, when I keep just wanting to look up at the skies for another glimpse. My skin is crawling and I'm totally on edge the entire walk back to Abigail's row home.
I'm one in a long line of foster children, whose names and handprints adorned a once red front door. She made me put mine there too. Said it was so I could always know I had a home here. I didn't tell her that I'm usually too heavily medicated to find my way home from school. Okay I did. That's why she's picking me up.
When we get in the door and it's locked, we address each other, arms folded, in the foyer.
"I know what I saw," I say, "We haven't had any incidents since I started the horse tranquilizers I've been fine and now—,"
"Damian. Look at me," she says, hands on my shoulders, "Year 9 has been tough. There's a lot of stress trying to fit in."
"You can say failing," I say. I'm not popular, passing out in class becuase I'm so highly medicated doesn't help. Neither do the former assualt charges.
"You've had a rough year so far. And then a bus just blew up in front of us. That is a perfectly valid reason for your brain to invent something to soften it," Abigail says, gently.
I lower my gaze.
"The doctors said the things you see is your brain protecting yourself from the real world. It's not a surprise that happened with what we say this afternoon," she says.
"I didn't think about that though I—," I saw the dragon swoop down above us then it snatched the bus. I saw it before everyone else reacted.
"You don't have to think about it. We don't know what happened when you were a baby or to your mother, but it had to have been serious. Your mind is still protecting you from that," she says.
I take a deep breath then bite it off. I was found at two years old, abandoned by railroad tracks somewhere in Leeds. Track marks on my arms like someone shot me up. No one ever came to claim me so the cops generally assume my mother OD'd or walked onto the tracks that same night. Lots of people do down there and when I was found it had been days. Too common of a dumping to even make the news I got funneled into the foster system immediately. Two attempted adoption placements failed due to 'violence' . I wasn't the only one being violent but whatever. I was lucky Abigail took a chance and took me in with my record, because I'm one step short of in patient or some other sort of lock up.
"It's okay. This is going to happen," Abigail says.
I groan, realizing where this is going, "Please don't call it in?"
"I have to call it in to your caseworker, Kristi is going probably have you see your therapist at least. That was very upsetting. For me too, look Damian, I've been a first responder to that sort of thing it's a lot, which is okay but we know it's a lot, so we're going to follow the right steps, okay?" She says, firmly.
"Stop with the cop voice," I say, smiling crookedly to get her to take pity on me.
"Can I get a yes ma'am?"
"Yes ma'am stop the cop voice, I'll talk to them," I sigh, "Okay? I have pre-cal homework."
"And you have trash duty," she says, slapping my arm, "Now go get changed all right?"
"All right," I say, holding up my hands.
I'm more upset at the prospect of the caseworkers sniffing around than anything else. I have to downplay it. I don't want them to make me change homes I like Abigail and I've been really good. Mostly good. Kind of good. They haven't once had to put me in a straight jacket. Therapy is all about setting attainable goals and I think not starting a school wide riot is a great one. I'm proud of me.
I go upstairs to my little room, across the hall from hers with a window and a climbable tree. But nope I don't do that stuff anymore. I'm being good. I am. It's a nice room, a neutral green with cork boards on the walls and a couple of book cases. A little IKEA desk set with a little plant. All nice and homey. I've been here eight months, that's a record without her sending me back. Usually back starts with in patient.  I do not want to go there.
I sigh, looking at the bare walls. I haven't put anything up because I don't expect to stay. I never expect to stay. Two duffel bags, pushed under the bed and my backpack. I can leave as soon as the case worker gets here.
Abigail has tried to change that though. A few more books, a couple board games, the plant which she says is mine to keep. She is trying to get stuff I can't leave behind. This spring we'll get a dog. Stuff I can't walk away from.
But no attachments is easier. No attachments. No regrets. I can walk out that door and never look back. I get hurt less that way. When I'm the one who leaves.  I know there's a Freudian thing in there about being abandoned on the railroad tracks. Well. Never again. I'll just walk away. Keep the closet empty. Shoes by the door. Sleep in my clothes. I don't leave at night anymore. Breaking into liquor stores is free and easy. It's also a one way trip back to in patient. As fun as that would be tonight. I'm not doing it.
I put on a t-shirt and sweats, and then toe back into my shoes. I can smell Abigail reheating dinner. We made lasagna. I hate lasagna but once when I was high, and they didn't know, and I was filling out intake forms I said I loved it because I was high. Now she thinks I like it and makes a point of making it for me. Those were good drugs I was high on. Who knew anti-psychotics and a half a bottle of vodka and three Adderall wouuld make a person feel that close to okay? Not me till I tried it. I also puked my guts out.
"Smells like you know how to cook or something," I say, coming back down the narrow stairs.
"You talk a lot for a guy who's got math homework," Abigail says, snapping her fingers. She's changed into a wifebeater and sweats, revealing all lacework of intricate tatoos on both arms. Army then cop, she's strong enough to hold me down and cuff my hands behind my back I found that out the hard way. Because breaking into liquor stores is a fun activity for the whole family, was not a valid reason to be out at two am. Apparently.
"On it," I hold up my backpack, sitting down at the scuffed kitchen table, "You call them yet?"
"Yeah, Kristi is going to come by tomorrow, and talk, and I moved up your therapy appointments to this Friday, sound good?" She asks.
"Amazing, I love it, I love the head shrinking going on—,"
"Damo. You get out of that rally."
"Oh shit yeah that's good then. Do that," I nod. I hate school assemblies. "Have I mentioned recently how much I hate people?"
"Only this morning, but I had physical therapy today so if you don't want to talk about today at all I can bitch for probably two hours," Abigail says,  checking the microwave. The only appliance in the kitchen she can reliably use yet was not impressed that I can use the stove, the thing which napalm is cooked on.
"I am very exicited to tune out what you learned about your physical therapist's cats," I say, getting out my notebooks.
"Here, before food, yeah I didn't actually have Bethany today, it was one of the guys," she says, handing me a little cup full of pills. My usual cocktail. I toss it back, and hold out a hand for a bottle of water. She tosses it to me and I catch with both hands. The water here tastes weird so there's always a stack of shrink wrapped water bottles in one corner of the dusty little kitchen.
"Oh handsome man or jerk dude?" I ask.
"The one you call jerk dude, hence the bitching," Abigail says, taking our slightly splattered plates of lasagna out of the microwave.
And despite our plans we eat mostly in silence, stuffing our faces with the gooey pasta. Entirely too much cottage cheese and we ran out of tomato sauce, so we compensated with even more ground beef. I didn't do such a bad job on the beef and I'm a sucker for cheese so I eat all that, forcing myself to stomach the slippery pasta.
Once dinner is over I rinse off our dishes and Abigail clears the table. I tell her a few things about school, the only good things I can think of which turns out to be two and I didn't get in a fight.  By the time I've finished the dishes the drugs are well hitting my head. An entire bottle of whiskey doesn't knock me on my ass this effectively and the NHS gives me this stuff for free. I might as well enjoy incoherence.
"You wanna go lay down?" Abigail asks, rubbing my back.
"No I'll watch TV," I say. We're watching all of Dr Who together. It's dumb and kind of cheesy a lot of the time but I enjoy it inspite of myself. Adventures and monsters. Companions who are always there and up for anything. A little house that travels with you. I enjoy the fantasy of it. It's better than the stuff I see when my brain is unattended.
"All right, go turn it on," she says, "I got your trash this time."
"You sure?" I ask, but I know I"m swaying where I stand.
"Yeah go on," she says.
I snap my fingers over my head in confirmation, dragging myself into the den. I curl up on a Lay Z boy, pawing at the end table for the remote. I cue up the show, my eyes getting heavy. I don't hear her come in but instead lay my head down to enjoy the haze. I'll be high as kite for a few hours. Might as well enjoy it.
The nothingness of feeling is intoxiacting. I'm so far from who I am getting to just float into the ether is relaxing. I don't have to worry about being alive. Or awake.
The final wave of sedation leaves me out cold. i'm well aware it's a dream but it's vivid. Rocks. A little girl with dark brown hair. Steps out to the churning black sea.
I' ve had the dream before and it's something good and non violent to bring up in therapy so I have. It's apparently a repressed memory probably of a sister or whoever i lived with, playing with me. No memory of a parent ever comes. Just a little girl in faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Dark hair in braids. Climbing up on these rocks by the water. It's always the same memory too so maybe it's the day I got left or something. I have chosen not to care as if my brain is making up, which is likely, then this is an okay end to it. I dream and it feels like I can still take care of her. It's only a dream but it's happened so often over the past few years, it feels more and more like coming home. That's what I hate about the visions as they fade from the drugs. At least they're familiar. The only familiar thing in the world that can't walk away from me. Everyone else leaves.
I wake up to the sound of hushed voices from the kitchen. I am groggy from the drugs but I vaguely recognize that the clock on the DVR reads 2:45 am. It's the middle of the night. And my head feels like it's full of sand. The voices aren't familiar and I feel myself patting myself down for a weapon I definitely don't have. The TV is off and it's dark, but there's a light on in the kitchen.
Lacking a real weapon I pick up the next best thing, one of the lamps, and edge towards the kitchen. The logical side of my brain reminds me that it's probably one of Abigail's cop friends who just got off a shift. The illogical side suggests it could be an Intruder who already has drugs and alcohol on him who I could beat up and steal the drugs and alcohol from. This fantasy is not based on me ever having successfully beaten someone up in my life but my lizard brain keeps telling me to try anyway one of these days I might want to mug someone who is more pathetic  and less coordinated than me. It has to happen, there are what six billion people in the world? I should be able to take a couple hundred of them in a fight that's just statistics.
But when I get closer to the kitchen the voice of my caseworker makes it obviosu that a home invasion is not occurring. Shame. I put down the lamp on the nearest end table, pushing aside a couple of healthy living magazines, then step in.
"What's going on?" I ask, hand in my hair in an attempt to look like I haven't been in a drugged out stupor. I don't know why these are the people mandate the drugged out stupor.
My caseworker, Kristi with an i for some reason, is standing in the kitchen, along with a couple of disinterred if jacked looking guys.
I know a mandatory impatient squad when I see one and do what anyone would do in this situation.
I bolt.
Abigail knows me or something because she goes to block the front door, while the two guys dive to tackle me.
"I didn't do anything A S S A U L T I want a lawyer—,"
"Damian this isn't a punishment," Abigail says, but she looks worried.
"It feels like it!" I say, struggling as the huge guys hold me by either arm, keeping my feet just far enough off the ground I can't get traction.
"After the incident in the street today and your reaction the board decided it's not safe for you without further evaluation," Kristi says, tiredly. She's tried to get rid of me as a case. Twice. I came back. Twice.
"Really it is the middle of the night, I can drive him down in the morning," Abigail says, frowning. She's given them cups of tea in cow mugs, but they aren't drinking them. The men hold me off the ground like I'm not their first delinquent kidnapping victim.
"Yeah, can't this wait—I have a math test tomorrow, wait—I have a math test tomorrow," I say. If they take me I don't have to take that test which I'm going to flunk. Not because I don't know the material but I'm already awake and I'm gonna fall asleep through it because I don'T actually care about the test. Then they'll tell Abigail I failed and wrote profane haiku on it and then she'll be upset and I'll have to retake it in that damn room for all the problem students and then that kid who I really want to beat up will be there. No reason he just has poor vibes. And I'll spend so much time resisting temptation that I'll flunk it again and it'll be a whole thing.  
If these creeps haul me away right now, I'll spend the next month in a padded cell while they adjust the meds and I get so board I eat padding.
"Ah—," I'm thinking.
"A math test we both know you're going to sleep through is NOT worse than in patient," Abigail clarifies for me.
"Cool on too many tranquilizers to decide that. So we all agree? I can't go I have a math test, super super super—,"
"It's out of my hands. I'm sorry. They reviewed CCTVs after your call and it's safest for him to be in patient for now," Kristi says.
"I didn't do anything!" I cry, then add to Abigail quietly, "Did I do something?"
"No, no you didn't—look he didn't do anything the incident was naturally unnerving and so he was a little rattled we came home and had a fine evening," Abigail says, shaking her head. So she doesn't like it either? Doesn't look like it.
"Can't I just take him to the therapist after school tomorrow? Despite—the obvious—we've been doing really well we watched TV and talked aobut what happened, we had a good talk a part of Damien learning coping mechanisms is to work through these experiences with support," Abigail reasons.
"Again, it's out of my hands. You might want to pack him a bag. They said it might be a few days," Kristi says.
"Oh come on. I didn't do shit. This is so unfair," I say, "I get locked up when I didn't even do anything? Look look you gotta give me the chance to do something. Let me earn it at least."
"Okay can I call him tomorrow? I'll call you tomorrow. Damian. Damian I'm going to call you tomorrow okay? I'm going to talk to your therapist and your doctors and get you home okay?" Abigail asks.
I glare, the rage is burning in my chest but the drugs are well dampening it. Why wake us up in the middle of the night? Abigail too she has work tomorrow, and now she's going to spend all day tomorrow trying to help track me down . And I've been good. Why did I do that when this is going to happen anyway? It's not like other people weren't freaking out.
She goes to pack a bag, Kristi half helps, holding up my school bag and asking how many pairs of shoes I ahve. Abigail knows fully well I have an extra backpack stuffed into my duffle bag. A go bag, but more of a sudden hospitalization bag. A couple of shirts, shoes with no laces, pants with no elastic, a couple of pairs of boxers. They let you have books so a few books I can usually reread, crayons because those are in short supply. And cigarettes to trade as well as snacks hidden in the lining. A reusable water bottle that's plastic, because those little plastic cups are annoying. Toothbrush, toothpaste, and since I've been with Abigail, a camp blanket because again about hospital stuff being awful. She knows where to find it, and goes up to my room after glancing disapprovingly at the situation one more time.
"So you've got a math test tomorrow?" Kristi asks.
"Go fuck yourself," I say.
"Oh this is going to be a good time," one of the guys holding me mutters.
"I didn't get your name Poundland Chris Hemsworth," I snarl.
They quit talking to me after that, and Abigail returns to see all of us fairly fuming. The exposure to my biohazard personality has already taken its toll on Kristi's team and she's clearly mentally trying to find out who she can rehome me to and how quickly that can happen. Abigail comes up and tries to look in my eyes but I tip my head away.
"Hey, Damien, what are you going to do?" Abigail asks.
I sigh.
"Damien."
"What they say," I mumble.
"You're going to follow what they say, and cooperate in therapy, and when you're alone in your room. Write our next campaign okay? You design any character you want I have to play it, and so does my mom I'm telling her she's involved, okay?" She asks, putting a notebook and some markers into my bag. She holds up the leather bound notebook for me to see, before stuffing it in. New. She knew they'd come and take me away? Only the two hundredth time it happend I'm aware I shouldn't be offended.
"Okay," I say, quietly. She went out and bought that stuff to have on hand to entertain me. I should be grateful and not offended that she knew this would happen.
"Okay? So, you get out of school for a few days, draw a sick sword for Luke, maybe this time it'll pass Marcey's approval, yeah?" She asks. Marcy is her sort of girlfriend long time situationship thing from the police force. She's has an armature forge and actually knows how to make weapons so naturally I'm trying to do a lesbian parent trap on them so that she'll make me cool weapons. I'm very selfless. Luke is my usual DnD characater when I play. Marcy said she'd make me a an actual item if I can design one that's do able. It can even be sharp if the doctors say okay.
"Okay," I force a crooked smile, "yeah I'll be fine I'll just go with the flow cause no problems get involved in no fights."
"Yeah, all right? I'm going to call you, start thinking of snacks you want they might let me bring you lunch okay, I don't know. We'll work through this, we're going to be okay."
"Yeah, yeah I'll be good, I swear, I already told Kristi to go fuck herself we're set," I say.
Abigail just rolls her eyes.
The men tentatively release me to let me take my bag. This time I don't try to bolt, they're clearly faster than me. Worth testing. I shoulder the backpack, and follow them out the rainbow front door. Internally I'm pissed. I didn't do anything, and it ruins like three people's whole day. Marcey was having lunch tomorrow with Abigail and then we were all going to help her move some free iron she found on Craigslist that might ahve been stolen, which is exactly the sort of shady shit i live for. But like seriously now she might miss it if Abigail is busy helping me and she shouldn't have to help me this time it was so not my fault. And I have to waste another, what week of my life in a padded cell? If I'm lucky in some in patient with salmonella flavored meatloaf everyday and exactly one appointment with a psychiatrist that totally could have happened, with me living at home.
Abigail follows me out the front door, "Call me all right? My number is in the notebook. Call me where you are."
"He's not going to have phone priviledges," one of the men says.
"How do you know that?" I mutter, as they escort me to a sleek black SUV. Surprisingly high budget for caseworkers.
I slide into the back obediently, surprised to be met with smooth tan leather seats. It's a custom SUV, I guess more of a limo, with a row of seats facing the one I'm in. The burly guards slide in on either side of me with relatively little care for the spacial logistics, leaving me crushed in between them. In the other row of seats sits a man and woman. The man is preppy, in what's clearly a fitted suit and shaved short hair. The woman is in a purple top and black skirt, black nylons. Her hair is in small braids and loose not past her chin. The man is clearly texting and does not stop when we get in the car.  The woman is on a laptop.
"I didn't do it," I say, to get that out there.
"What's your full legal name?" The woman asks. She has a crisp south London accent.
"Damian Ransom Winters," I say. As a foundling I don't know who named me, I think a foster mom who had me when I was an infant then I went to trial adoption and she never got me back.  It's not a bad name, but they clearly should know that.
"No family?" The man asks, glancing at me with the exact same affection he'd use for a cockroach crawling out of his shower drain. "It says here you were a foundling. No family has ever contacted you?"
"No? Why who's gonna want me?" I scoff. You don't leave a kid on railroad tracks because you want them back. You certainly don't leave a kid on railroad tracks then decide ten years later to track down the delinquent because maybe he got better.
"How many medications are you currently on?" The man asks, ignoring my question which was rhetorical.
"Five, two anti-psychotics, an anti depressant, and then two mood stabilizers I don't remember the names shouldn't you have all this?" I ask.
They both type.
"Did you take those medications today?" The woman asks.
"Yeah? Ask my foster mum—she gives them to me and watches me take it," I say, "Shouldn't you guys like know this?"
"How long have you been medicated? All your life?" The man asks.
"Yes—who are you exactly? And what clinic are we going to?" I ask.
"Earlier today. Describe for me what it is you think you saw," the woman says.
"I have no idea what you're talking about? When? Like at school? The back of my eyelids," I say.
"When the bus exploded everyone was running. You however looked up at the sky," the woman turns her laptop around. To show me. Like a loon, pointing at the sky. Damn CCTV footage.
"I—nothing. I was freaking out. I didn't see anything," I say, quietly.
"You gesture twice and clearly track something in the sky, now I ask you again. What did you see?" The woman asks, tipping the shiny laptop a bit as if I'm obtuse. Well I am obtuse it's just mostly intentional.
"Look I—I've had these hallucinations, all my life," I say, "It's just—a thing I do. To cope with trauma or whatever I—it doesn't mean anything. It's just me. I'm on meds."
"What do you see?" Low-budget Chris Hemsworth looking dude who helped restrain me, says. But he says it more nicely than the others, like he actually wants to know.
"Just stuff," I say, rubbing my face, "Like monsters like standard hallucinations?"
"Neath, let us finish," the woman says, sternly, "Damian you need to tell us what you saw this morning."
"It—it was something in the sky. It looked like a dragon okay? Or some other flying monster but it looked like a dragon. With huge wings and a lot of teeth. It was all black. And I saw it swoop down and pick up the bus and fly off. But—I'm aware that's not what happened it was another bomb," I say, leaning back a little in the slick leather seat, "it happens. We're in London. I have these issues I was abandoned when I was a baby so we think I saw my mom get hit by a train or something?"
"You were?" Neath asks, again a ltitle nicely.
"Yeah, it's in the file, happy reading," I say, gesturing to her laptop.
"How long have you seen these things you call monsters?" The man interrogating me finally looks up from his cellphone.
"All my life, as long as I can remeber. Hence therapy and a lot of drugs, not all perscribed," I mutter the last part.
"Did you get your pills?" Neath asks.
"No I don't get to touch those I thought you were going to drug me on something different?" I ask.
"We're not going to drug you on anything," the woman says, closing her laptop.
"Right," I say, "Very funny look I admit it's a hallucination all right?"
"You're not hallucinating anything, Damian. What you see is, entirely real. And if as you claim you've witnessed it all your life in spite of drugs then you're extremely attune. Incredibly so in fact," the man says, coolly.
"What?" I blink.
"The Sight is now exceedingly uncommon, except within certain family lines that have retained it. Occasionally the average person can develop it, though usually that's much later in life and not anywhere near as vivid as you experience," The woman says, "Moira Keeger. Let me be the first to congratulate you. You're not going back into a hospital again."
"What?" I look between them.
"Those with The Sight can see the other side. Creatures, monsters yes," Neath puts in quickly. I wasn't getting that.
"You're saying—you're a secret society of people who see monsters?" I ask, slowly.
"Not so secret. The governments of the world are well aware of what we do. That's how we got you. Occasionally we identify ready invididuals with the Sight who we welcome into our society where they can be properly protected. Supernatural creatures can sense you, and often will wish to cause you harm, but by your glittering records, it seems you found that out," Moira says.
"You're kidnapping me," I say.
"We're rescuing you. You had no life where you were and you can do the world a service. Protecting it from the other side," the man says, adjusting his stiff tie, "Colm Breegan. I am Grandmaster of the Stack Rock defenses. That's where you're going."
"To fight—monsters?" This is—wait a minute. This makes no sense. People don't come along and kidnap delinquents for adventures.
This is a hallucination.
I get it. I watch movies. This is all a hallucination I'm having to cope with being taken away. I was more upset than I realized because I really like living with Abigail. For once I couldn't leave in thirty seconds, I couldn't walk away. So my mind is doing this. To trick me. She even gave me the DnD book to write in. So my brain wrote me into this adventure to cover up that I'm going back in a padded room.
Well okay then. This hallucination could be fun. I'll go along. At least until they medicate me out of it. Might as well enjoy them while they last.
"Okay cool, you me fight monsters—someplace? Awesome," I say, nodding.
"Stack Rock is a fortress that we use to head off any potential threats to the mainland," Neath explains.
"And the Guard is recruits from the shall we say less desirable walks of life," Colm says, disdainfully.
"Me," I say.
"Correct," the other guy, who I might have bitten, mutters.
"Those who are identified as having the sight and can't fit anywhere else—come here," Colm says.
"Normally someone with your talents might be fostered by a high ranking family. However given your rather long list of charges you don't qualify for such an arrangement. So you're Guard," Moira says, putting her laptop back in a slim leather messenger bag.
"Okay then, yeah, cool," I say, nodding. I didn't think that I'd get treated that well, "So, where are we going?"
"Stack Rock," Neath repeats for me.
"Your new home," Colm says, with no affection, "For however long you live."