Page 9 of The Sound of Him

After I was recused, I became greedy for the good things in the world, with all that was bright and beautiful. Music, fashion, art, food, travel, knowledge - I collected every drop of vibrancy I could find, desperate to keep the darkness at bay. I still do it, my own operation leading me to add a layer to my collection as I line my office walls with collages of the people I’ve helped save, each picture proof that happy endings exist.

I’m a dragon, spending most of my time holed up in here, hoarding all of my bits of hope. That’s what the files are for Travis - his hoard. It’s why I’m just as meticulous when entering each physical file into my system as he was when making them.

In between scanning Travis’s files, I’m tending to all the incoming messages on the secure server, trying to have as rapid of a response as possible. Some of them are simple to resolve, just operatives checking in or sending updates as they handle loose ends. Others are more complicated.

There are the ones about victims who didn’t make it - we lost two during the initial rescue itself and another during transport. Then there are the ones about the survivors who are barely hanging on. One needs to go to a hospital, preferably located in a city whose police are under Kellan’s control. Another needs a medical regime that the doctor at her safehouse will be able to maintain as long as things don’t go sideways, but a backup plan needs to be in place just in case.

It’s fair to say it’s not an enjoyable day.

Sure, the messages that pour in about safe recoveries and captured monsters are fucking beautiful to see. My favorite energy drink just came out with a new flavor that tastes likeJolly Rancher and gives me a little extra pep in my step. The survivors have had breakfast and are tentatively moving around the safehouse as they learn to accept their newfound safety. It’s all good things.

But the other side of the coin is littered with the hard stuff. There’s paperwork - both physical and digital. There’s the growing worry for operatives that are strung out on no sleep and waning adrenaline. There’s the seemingly never-ending list of tasks for me to assign and oversee. There’s the knowledge that any time now, Keaton will be calling me for an update, the man more fragile than ever with this particular operation.

The bright side of all of my work?It’s incredibly distracting. I bury myself in it, preferring to work over anything else. Especially over having to face the survivors again. Just the thought makes me want to crawl out of my fucking skin.

It’s funny, in a twisted sort of way. Getting to see the survivors used to be my favorite part of peeking behind the curtain of the organization Kellan and Keaton built. There was a man, Fox, who the brothers had trusted enough to run their tech, from their very first one-man operation through their expansion until they were running a dozen multi-operative operations at once, all around the world. If Kellan was my emotionally distant father figure growing up, Fox was the cool uncle. He was the only other man Kellan trusted to come into the house when I was still young.

At the end of each of Keaton’s early operations, Fox would ask, “Hey, kiddo, wanna watch your superhero?” and I would clamber onto his lap, perching there with wide-eyes as his grainy security feed showed Keaton alongside operatives as they walked survivors into safehouses just like the one I’m in now, all these years later.

For a while, I was too young to understand more than the basics. I knew the people were scared and hurt, and that Keatonand his friends were saving them from bad guys. I knew that when Keaton went away for a while and Kellan got grumpy and quiet, it meant he was busy being a hero. I knew when he came back, he’d probably have bruises and cuts, maybe even a broken bone, but he’d also have a new trinket for me. A snow globe with the same Statue of Liberty I saw in the history textbook my tutor gave me or a little teddy bear wearing a shirt that stated that all his exes lived in Texas.

I asked Fox endless questions, his patience just as never-ending. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how many questions he avoided answering, though - and how often the brothers did the same.

It was around that time when I realized the truth of what was happening. The people Keaton were saving weren’t like the ones in the superhero movies. The people he was saving were likeme. They had been hurt like me. I wasn’t a rare case. Their bad guys were like my bad guys. They were justhumans.

It turned out the entire world was filled with monsters in human form.

Fox had confirmed it when I asked, sitting beside him on my own chair because I had reached the point where my previously malnourished and gangly body had filled out enough to be heavy and long and awkward. He hesitated, I remember, but he gave in. With a sad smile and a hand curled around my bony shoulder, he’d said, “Yeah, Ace, they’re like you.”

It was a reality that sat heavy with me, breaking my tiny, fragile heart.

There was a chance that things would be magically fine for the survivors after, like in all those superhero movies. I couldn’t know how that part would turn out for them.But if they ended up like me in that way too?Then their happy endings would be marred with underlying fear. With nightmares. With panicattacks. With the desperation to be touched and the terror at the very idea of contact.

There was something worse than all those realizations, though. So much worse.

I realized that the survivors Keaton saved weren’t exactly like me. There was one major difference.

They were alwayssurvivors, plural.

I was asurvivor, singular.

In the closet, after the closet, even with Keaton and Kellan and Fox - I was always alone.

The magic of it all quickly dwindled after that. With every live feed that failed to show a singular survivor, it got harder to watch - until I eventually stopped altogether. Fox was more than happy to answer my questions when I started pretending that I couldn’t get enough of the stuff inside the computer instead of the stuff displayed on it. Within a year, it wasn’t pretend anymore. It was an obsession. A coping mechanism.

There was no technology between me and the survivors last night, though. I had to stand and watch as they clung to each other. I had to see one of them move in front of a group of others, chin jutted out, hands at his sides ready to strike as he tried to protect them against any harm that may have been waiting. I saw hands being held and comforting words being shared and soothing smiles being offered.

I had hoped it’d be different. I’d hoped that by being such a big part of their rescue, they’d feel enough likemineto fix that usual ache of loneliness.

Itwasbetter, at first. It felt good to finally see their happy ending - one I helped build. But it soured so fast. It became worse than ever before, the usual dull ache turning into something visceral and violent - a living, breathing thing inside my chest that made it far too easy to remember that closet and the dark inside it.

They were already a family. A unit.

Survivors, plural.

And despite Jake by my side, and Travis further inside the house, and Maison nearby - I was still standing there, alone. Because I’m not quite a survivor, but not quite an operative either.

How can I be while keeping the secrets that I am?The guys would never accept me if they found out the truth. I’d lose their trust and their respect. I’d lose Maison’s friendship, his love. I’d be equal to the monster who risked Carter’s life in his eyes. In all of their eyes. Their hatred for the man they refer to asThe Headwould become hatred for me too.