FIRE [FIRST DRAFT]

Chapter 16: Out

 Aimee's thoughts and questions drifted away, along with her once powerful hatred for her mother. She was not curious anymore. All she could think about was getting out of that cage, of seeing Stefan again. She did not know whether he'd made it out of AIM, and she was fighting to believe he had, that Gavin had, too. She needed to see them again, and for the moment, that was all she cared about.

The door at the head of the passageway creaked open, almost tantalisingly, as three agents brought in another hostage.

"Get off of me!" she blasted, her French accent leaking into her English for the first time. "I am not chipped, you assholes, you are not putting me in a cage."

It was Celeste, and she was stirring and tugging forcefully to escape the agents' holds, but when she was rid of the grip of one, she was greeted by the grip of another. They pushed her into the jail marked Williams C. and left the room again, without a word or a trace of emotion.

"What a reunion," she muttered, knowing that Aimee was next to her and Abba across from Aimee.

"No kidding."

"Why did they bring you here?" queried Abba.

"Probably something to do with working for you, and then GINM, etc. etc. I'm not a very trustworthy subject. Your building is down, by the way. I saw it collapse with my own eyes."

Abba's face was void of surprise, but laced with woe.

"You actually saw it?" asked Aimee.

She nodded, "I was grabbed just after you and the others, but I got away, at least for a while. I was being shoved into a chopper when the building fell into the sea."

"Enough!"

Abba spoke so quickly it seemed instinctive, like an irrepressible reflex. Aimee glimpsed at her with an emotion that wasn't quite pity, but that she could not label as anything else. It only lasted a second. She turned to the wall that bordered her jail and Celeste's, watching it as if it were not there, as if she could see her.

"What about Gavin and Stefan?"

She could not answer; the words were deafening. A buzzing sound circled in Celeste's head, like the high-pitched aftershock of a grenade's detonation. Aimee crawled to the other end of her cell, closer to Celeste, desperate for an answer – any answer. But she didn't know; she hadn't seen either of them escape AIM. Even when she had tried searching for them, airborne from within the helicopter, she had been scolded and chided by an agent, pulled away from the window.

"We can only hope they're okay, right?" whispered Aimee.

They were used to this: hoping, waiting.

"No, they have to be okay!" Celeste exclaimed.

She threw her head back against the wall, pulled her knees into her chest. Then, she sighted something out the corner of her eye – a hand. Aimee was sitting with her back pressed to her cell wall and her right arm extended through the bars, just lengthy enough for Celeste to reach. At first, Celeste was hesitant, thinking that accepting the gesture was a sign of weakness, but she soon forgot to care. She scooted over to the gate, weaved her arm through it and took Aimee's thoughtful hand.

She repeated, "They have to be okay."

There was little Aimee knew about her, but she knew enough. She knew that she was kind, gentle and sensitive, she knew that she was strong and independent, and she knew that there were many things of which she was afraid, all of this hidden behind a vail of hardness and pseudo apathy. Finally, she let loose the swollen ache within her, her tears. Celeste did not cry – ever – at least, not until then.