Unremarkable (Anything But #2)(5)

By: Lindy Zart



She had suspicions and intuitions; all of which were telling her he was one to be extremely wary of. He hinted at his true character; he alluded to acts of immorality, manipulation, and deception without outright confessing anything. All that added up to her fear of what he’d meant by that statement. Test subjects pounded through her head continually, making her more nauseous than she already was.

What had changed inside her body and why? She didn’t feel any different. Could Superior August be lying? But then why keep her alive? He would have finished her off if he had no purpose for her. She almost wished he had. Almost. Self-preservation was a strange thing and Honor’s was more than adequate. Death would not be finding her anytime soon, not if she could stop it.

Time had no purpose in a room without clocks, in a room she was caged in, locked down in. She had no idea what day it was, what time it was, nothing. The lights never shut off, and Honor drifted in and out of consciousness; unable to keep track of how many minutes were passing from one blackout to the next. It seemed like it had been hours, maybe days, since August’s visit. And why wasn’t she hungry or thirsty? Whose blood was pumping through her veins?





Have to get out of here, have to get out of here, have to get out of here thrummed through her head, her heart pounding along to the words. No matter how she pulled, shifted her body, or tugged, the restraints would not budge. All she accomplished was tiring herself out; mentally more than physically.

Honor froze as a faint clank sounded and then the familiar sound of air colliding with air signaled the opening of the door behind her. She thought of closing her eyes, but couldn’t force a cowardice she didn’t feel. Whoever it was, Honor wanted to meet their eyes when they showed themselves. Her breaths were shallow and short as she waited. The eyes that looked into hers were blue; the face looming above hers determined and familiar. Relief swam through her, turning her body limp.

A finger rose to his mouth and Honor gave a short nod.

“Be right back,” he mouthed, ducking out of view.

She lifted her head, trying to see him as he worked. The bonds on her wrists and legs tugged and were suddenly gone. She moved to sit up, expecting pain in her abdomen and experiencing nothing but a light tugging sensation. Honor looked down at her stomach, beginning to lift the white tee shirt to examine the flesh beneath it.

An abrupt head shake stilled her hands. She was grabbed by the arms and hoisted down, her legs wobbly from disuse. A thick arm looped under hers as he escorted her toward the door. Honor opened her mouth, and as though able to sense her every thought, he widened his eyes and shook his brown-haired head. She straightened, not needing his support.

“Follow me,” he mouthed next.

With a nod she did—down a cold, blank hallway. It was eerie how silent and empty it was in the facility. Honor’s footsteps faltered as they passed by the room she stayed in during the UDK training. A disturbing sense of homesickness swept over her, causing her to frown. It made sense, she supposed. That was what she had known as her life, as recently as six months ago. It was the last life she remembered, even if it was no longer hers to have.

What am I? Fugitive trickled through her mind—among other things—but that one was for sure.

Shouts drew her attention forward and she saw him remove a gun from a hip holster and point it toward a mass of robots—not the literal ones, but the UDK mindless beings that explicitly followed orders, no matter what.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, gun raised. “Get back!”

That weapon could be turned on her in a heartbeat. Once she would have worried about that from him, but at the moment she didn’t even think to not trust him. It was him or August. Not much thought was involved in that decision. Honor had no weapon to defend herself with, but as the men swarmed toward them, shouting at them to stop and for him to drop his weapon as they aimed their own pistols at them, she moved without conscious decision, right into their line of fire and in front of her rescuer.

“What are you doing?” he yelled at her, ineffectively grabbing at her arm to tug her back behind him.

It was weird—he had to outweigh her by a hundred pounds or more—and she wasn’t moving. That barely registered in her head when the shots rained their way; short pinging bursts that would kill him if one hit him. Oddly enough, she didn't worry about herself getting hit by a bullet or the possibility of her death. Been there, done that.

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