Untitled Project

6. A little black box

Oliver listened intently as Ivy recounted all the strange events of the past few days. Unlike Astrid, Oliver was neither bubbly nor easily distracted. He punctuated Ivy's story only with nods and quickly murmured questions. Once Ivy had explained her story to Oliver's satisfaction, he sat back, staring off as if deep in thought.

"He's calculating it all," Astrid explained. "He's a thinker."

Ivy nodded, waiting for Oliver to speak. Finally, after giving it all a bit more thought, he spoke again.

"This all leads me to believe we've been compromised."

Astrid gasped. "No..." For once, she seemed quiet, her eyes widened with fear.

"Yeah," Oliver said grimly. "Between Ivy's story and some of what we've been seeing ourselves, well, it doesn't add up to anything good."

"What do you mean?" Ivy questioned. "Catch me up here."

"Well, we have enemies," Oliver explained. "There are people like us. Most of us come from old, gifted families. Others, like you, Ivy, are found out of the blue and join us. But there are also people who have the same gifts we do, but have found ways to exploit the forces we simply choose to read. We aim only to understand. The people we fight against, they aim to do much more."

"Much more? Like what?"

"Over the years, people with our powers have naturally been curious about what more they can do. Some of that is innocent, and it never hurts to explore your powers more deeply. But, there's a group of people who split off from the rest of us long ago. They don't just want to explore the extent of their powers for the sake of curiosity or education. They want to learn to use their powers to the darkest extent they can. They call themselves 'The NAME' Over the years, they've learned horrible things. They can control peoples' bodies and sometimes, even control minds. They can manipulate the wills of animals, and some can even create fire with their minds. And they're growing stronger."

Ivy thought back to that morning's phone call. "When the voice came over the phone line, and my phone got hot... it sounded like fire. Crackling, you know. Do you think they... these enemies of yours... of ours... set fire to something?"

Oliver nodded. "I do. I don't know what, but I can guess. There are a lot of old families who fight against them, so they could have targeted one of those families as a sort of example of what happens when anyone stands up to them. They want power. They want us to bend to their will or they want to take the powers from us by force."

"And... the rest of the signs? The train? The cashier? I thought I was going fucking crazy..."

"You're not," Oliver said. "I can reassure you of that. I can only theorize on the other signs. You'll learn to read your own signs soon enough. It's a very personal matter. While we can all interpret each other's signs, we're only really 'experts' on our own."

Ivy thought this over. "I don't feel like an expert."

"You will. Just give it some time. You've probably felt signs your whole life. You just passed them off as weird feelings, or you ignored them. Until you're made aware of your gift, the signs are easy enough to ignore. Well, most of the time."

"Most of the time? What about the rest of the time? It's hard to believe I've been ignoring these signs all my life, to be totally honest."

Even as Ivy said this, memories surfaced. She saw herself, vivid as a movie, at various points in her life. Ivy, at eight, dreaming that her pet guinea pig had died, only to wake up sobbing and find the furry creature lifeless in his green plastic hut. Ivy, at ten, squirreling a snack in the pocket of her sweater before getting on the school bus, because she could see the flat tire in her mind's eye. Ivy, at sixteen, staying home instead of going to the big party at Rachel Gibbons' house, because of her persistent dreams involving police sirens, only to wake up the next morning to the news that the party had been busted by the cops. Ivy, at nineteen, pleading with her father not to get on his motorcycle, pleading with him to only take back roads, and later watching helplessly as the ambulance wailed by toward the interstate, and waiting for the phone call. Ivy, only a month before her move to Boston, dreaming the same dream night after night: a long white room, with a small table, and a little black box. Dream-Ivy would open the box, night after night, and a voice would echo out. It was Ivy's own voice, and every night it said the same three words: "Don't get married." This last memory left a particularly icy feeling in Ivy's stomach. She was jarred from her thoughts by Oliver's slow, calm voice.