Page 43 of Victorious

Victor lit a Bunsen burner, and held the scrap paper over it, watching the formula burn.

“You’re awfully paranoid,” mused Xavi as he swept the ashes into the sink.

“I’m careful,” countered Victor, tapping his temple. “Better the right head than the wrong hands. Let’s go.”

The chemist stood like a sleepwalker where Xavi had left him, swaying on his feet. It would take a few minutes for him to come to his senses, and by that point, they’d be gone.

The night was cold, and as he stepped outside, Victor turned up the collar of his coat. He slid his hands in his pockets, fingering the new vials, the timer on his life once more extended.

“What was that, back there?” demanded Victor as Xavi fell in step beside him.

The kid looked at him blankly—his eyes had the dazed look they always did, right after he spent time in someone else’s head. “What was what?”

“Fontaine. He remembered me.”

Xavi shook his head. “I don’t know. I was really thorough, boss. I made sure I went back all the way. I didn’t leave a trace.”

“And yet.”

The kid shoved his hands in his coat and looked up into the dark. “I mean, I’ve never rewound somebody more than once. Maybe there’s a limit…”

The kid’s uncertainty annoyed him. If it had been Victor’s gift, he would have found the limit. Tested until he knew exactly how many times he could use a mind before it broke.

“It did feel kind of weird this time…” Xavi was saying.

Victor stopped. “Weird how?”

Xavi searched for the right word and landed on “Easier?” He shifted from foot to foot. “I mean, normally memories have to be kind of pried out, second by second? But this time, they slid right off, like they weren’t even stuck down. Maybe that’s a good thing though?”

Maybe, but Victor doubted it.

The human mind was a delicate thing, recollection and knowledge closely linked. Near-term memory was one thing, but if the chemist lost the ability to do his job, he’d be worthless.

Fontaine was a competent chemist.

Victor resented the idea of having to find another one so soon. The whole point of paying Xavier was to ensure he didn’t.

“Maybe the mind is like one of those old tapes people used to watch?” mused the kid. “You know, the kind that wears out…”

But Victor was no longer listening.

He was staring at the girl in the middle of the street.

It was late. The stores were closed, and the road was empty, and until that moment, he and Xavi had been the only ones around.

The girl stood ten feet away, her back to him. Her hair, the same pale shade as his. Hacked short to the shoulders. She was dressed in those old rainbow leggings, the ones he’d scrounged up for her the day they met.

A gun hung from her fingers.

“Sydney?”

His voice was little more than a whisper, but she heard him. Turned, and stared.

“Victor?” she called out, her voice still caught between childhood and adolescence.

He took a step toward her, and her expression flickered like a light short-circuiting, flashing first surprise, then joy, then rage. Before he could say anything, she swung the gun up, aiming at his chest.

The next time you point a gun at someone, he’d told her, make sure you’re ready to pull the trigger.