Prelude: Tripp Anne Smith

Prelude: Tripp Anne Smith
by David J. Bouchard


The sun shone cheerfully on the steps of the Atlanta Train Station as Tripp walked down them, but it did little to warm her mood. She reached street level and looked about, taking in the contrasting sights. Bright green trees and colorful spring flowers grew in abundance everywhere, as expertly tended as the neatly cut grass and scattered bushes and plants of types she didn't know, but seemed appropriate in a place so much warmer than her home in Chicago.

The stark contrast occurred between the green spaces; electric cars hummed along streets and through intersections, computer controlled to need neither drivers nor road indications of any sort, weaving through crossroads between cross traffic as if it didn't exist. Pedestrians, dressed in simple clothes with little variety walked silently, evenly spaced in rows almost as perfect as those of the vehicles. They would walk into traffic without pause, and never once be struck as the vehicles easily adjusted for their presence.

Rarely, a lone, silent adult would be accompanied by a stroller or a a scattering of toddlers. Tripp smiled when she saw them, full of life as they ignored the adults. They ran about, playing games, safe in the knowledge that every single adult was watching out for them at all times, knowing that every one of those adults would react no differently than their own parents should they cause trouble, and safe in knowing that they'd never be lost so long as an adult was near by.

Tripp knew the cost of that safety though. She sighed and adjusted her leather coat, a relic of a bygone era, a cluster of quixotic pins clustered on one lapel. It was too warm for the jacket, but it was important to her to wear it. It helped her stand out in a world that was so depressingly uniform. Her denim jeans didn't blend in either, another relic, especially the way they flared near her canvas shoes, so unlike the straight, simple slacks and skirts worn by everyone else. She adjusted her round, rose-tinted sunglasses, and patted her hairband to make sure the wind hadn't blown her hair around too much. Her shoulder-length black hair was longer than the functionally short hair of every other man and woman on the street, and tended to get out of control if she didn't keep it in check.

In short, she stood out. She always would, it was unavoidable, a random quirk of genetics, and every single person on Earth knew it. She swept her gaze at the sea of bustling, orderly humanity and sighed.

“And they call me Silent.” she said.

The crowd parted for her as she stepped into the flow of human traffic, forming a moving bubble around her as she walked to the curb and dug into her oversized purse – more of a satchel, really – for her cell. With a few quick taps she ordered a cab, the bubble of personal space around her alive as pedestrians adjusted their paths, deviating from their ant rows, knowing she liked a certain amount of distance from them.

The taxi arrived, simply marked, not needing to advertise. She climbed into the empty car, choosing the front and leaning back as the seat and belt adjusted automatically to her rather short height. She leaned back and the radio turned on, playing music from her phone. It was a dead art form – one of many. The collection that played was as eclectic as she was, and ranged across the last half of the twentieth century, all the way up until the Change. She closed her eyes and dreamed of a bygone time where everyone was unique; colorful, vibrant individuals that brightened the world with diversity and culture and art. The illusion soothed her sadness and put a smile on her face as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

A smooth, subtly artificial voice woke Tripp as the seat shifted upright. Her cab ride was over, and she stepped out in front of an gleaming apartment building, its orderly perfection marred by the sight of a police car parked in front. It was a rare sight for most, less so for her. It was styled like those from the prior age, black and white, with the seal of Atlanta on each side, and a slim bar of red and blue LEDs across the top. The lights were off, but an officer stood near the cruiser, politely waiting, in a royal blue uniform, complete with badge. Kids liked the badge.

Tripp stretched quickly, then walked over to the officer – Martinez, according to his uniform – with a fake smile and extended hand. He shook it politely, as everyone did. Nobody shook hands any more, of course, but it was a rare chance to get some human physical contact, and so she was always obliged.

“Thank you for coming,” Officer Martinez said by way of greeting. His speech was less stilted than most; adults didn't talk to each other after all, but police often interacted with children whose minds hadn't gone through the Change and joined the Mindshare, the collective mental awareness of mankind. Most of it, anyway.

“Well somebody's got to do it. What's the situation?” she asked, knowing it wasn't going to be pleasant. Crime was unheard of on the entirety of the planet since the Change, with one exception; that's why she was there.

“It's unpleasant. The bodies have been removed and forensics have gone over it, but its hardly necessary. The identity of the killer is already established; a Rogue Silent, Rodger Bisith, age thirty three, from Brussels in England. He'd never shown signs of going Rogue before, according to his caseworker, but clearly they either missed something or something changed. He is still at large, though.”

“Alright, I'll have a look around and then I want to see the bodies. After that, his house or whatever,” she sighed, shaking her head. Bodies, he had said. Plural. When one of them went bad, they often became psychotic. Nobody knew why, and it sometimes kept Tripp up at night. Most Silent would be fine their entire lives, but every now and then one would snap and God help anyone near them when that happened.

“Follow me then,” Officer Martinez said, and the two entered the apartment tower. When the lift doors opened on the fifteenth floor Tripp was hit by the subtle smell of horror.

“Fuck me,” she said, her face scrunching up as her stomach did a barrel roll.

“It only gets worse from here,” Martinez said, his tone grim. It was more emotion than she'd heard from anyone in years, but she didn't have the mental resources to process two completely different kinds of shock.

Six doors down on the left, the apartment door was closed – barely, having been broken in earlier – and police tape covered it in neat rows. Beyond it four more doors also had tape across them, making Tripp wince. She made a small gesture with her hand and without touching it, the police tape peeled back and stuck to the wall, ready for reuse. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, despite the stench, she pushed at the door.

Blood and waste covered the floor, the furniture, the walls, and even the ceiling. Splatter patterns were chaotic and random, but the clear imprint of an entire spinal column was splattered in crusty, drying blood across the kitchen table. An enormous hole was torn in one wall, blasted out from the apartment, and blood streaks led to – or rather from – the neighboring unit. And the unit past that, and the one past that, each one smashed open and its inhabitants dragged violently into this room.

It was the worst thing she'd ever seen, and she staggered back out of the room and threw up right there in the hallway. Martinez closed the door and put the tape back in place, saying nothing while Tripp recovered. Pale and shaking a little, she straightened back up. This wasn't her first crime scene, but in all her life she'd never seen anything so gruesome. “I've taken down five other Rogues,” she said, taking deep breaths to steady herself. “But this...” she managed.

“I assume that's all you need from here?” Martinez asked quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She smiled slightly and nodded, grateful for the gesture.

“Fuck yes. Let's go.”

Outside, Tripp paused to sit on the apartment's steps and take long, deep breaths of fresh air, occasionally spitting out the taste of vomit into the bushes. Looking up, she saw three large, pastel green vans drive up and park, opening to disgorge a small army of cleaning professionals. They carried their supplies and equipment silently past the duo and inside, gone as silently as they'd arrived.

Finally they got into the police cruiser, which slid effortlessly into traffic while the soothing tones of some 1950's Rock & Roll played quietly from the radio. Officer Martinez closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking.

“The incident began abruptly,” he began without preamble. Tripp knew that thanks to the Mindshare, he knew every detail from the victims' perspective. “the Rogue had five guests, his parents and two brothers. During dinner he became spontaneously enraged, and began shouting at them. It was only somewhat coherent, but it seems he'd been bottling up some very deep resentment towards them for a long time. Then the killing began.

“Rodger Bisith was already registered as a very powerful telekinetic. Stronger than most. That's why we sent for you specifically.” Tripp nodded in response. She was known as one of the top go-to Silent on the planet. She sometimes did odd jobs helping out with things like construction or demolition, underwater recovery, and of course, her five times – now six – dealing with Rogues.

“After that he lashed out and bashed his way through the four next units, and in a fury dragged everyone he saw – seven people in all – into his own unit and began tearing them to pieces.” Martinez's voice shuddered a little; remembering it as if he'd been there. “Then he fled to the roof and has been missing since.”

“Jeez, twelve people...” Tripp muttered. “At least he hasn't killed anyone else. Any idea where he might go?”

“Nowhere we haven't already looked. He was even less visible than you are – no offense – and knowing where he went when nobody else was around is impossible.” Tripp simply nodded. You can't track someone who isn't plugged in, and that was the trade-off of having the ability to lift a truck with your mind – you were alone in a sea of mankind that shared their thoughts in a way you could never comprehend.

“None taken,” she sighed offhandedly. She was used to it at this point. The price for her power; absence from the collective thought pool of human kind. They could sense her presence, sort of, but needed to talk to communicate directly. It was the same for all Silent humans. Born with a genetic abnormality, when adolescence came along and all her friends began the change, drifting into the larger community, she was left behind. One by one students stopped showing up to class, until one day, it was only her.

She was she was fifteen when her power manifested for the first time. Waiting at home for her tutor to arrive one morning, she had woken up in a foul mood – an increasingly common situation at the time, and when she stepped out the front door, she slammed it shut so hard that it flew across the living room, taking half the door frame with it, and scaring her half to death.

Her tutor didn't come that day, or ever again.

“Tripp?” She started, looking over at Martinez. They'd arrived at the hospital. She must have fallen asleep on the ride over.

“Yeah, let's get this over with. I think I need to see the bodies. Don't ask me why,” she said in a dull tone, staring up at the overcast sky. Had it been overcast all day? She couldn't remember. It felt like it.

“Alright, this way,” he replied, adjusting his uniform, and stepping to the hospital, Tripp's shorter legs moving quicker to keep up.

New Grady Memorial Hospital was the most expansive hospital in Georgia, rebuilt after the Change and the war that came with it. The hospital was on the front lines of “treating” Telepaths and Silent alike, back when it was assumed when something was wrong with them, and the original Grady Memorial had paid the price for it. Eventually the treatments ended with the war, and the hospital, barely standing but functioning, was torn down and rebuilt.

“I've heard about this place,” Tripp said grimly as they walked its snow-white halls and passed its pale blue clad nursing staff. “When the first Silent finally tore the old place open, they found a nightmare theater. Vivisections, brains wired directly into supercomputers, lead-lined isolation rooms; the old humans were desperate to stop the Change. So many kids...”

“It was bad, alright,” Martinez said quietly. “The Silent who fought here weren't kind to the staff. They had no reason to be. But the old humans, they didn't understand what was happening and were terrified. They thought the Mindshare that the first generation was growing, creating by linking minds spontaneously, was some kind of nightmare themselves. Then there were the out of control Silent, and, well, they got desperate.

“So did we,” Tripp said grimly as they got into a particular elevator. “And a tank can't do much to a strong, prepared telekinetic.”

“Well, luckily, you'll never have to find that out first hand,” Martinez joked. Tripp smiled, noting that since they'd met at the train station he'd gotten accustomed to speaking again. Like most, he likely talked little if at all since his school days.

“This is it,” Martinez said quietly as the doors opened into the second basement level of the hospital. A sign on the wall directly in front of them read 'MORGUE' and was helpfully accompanied by a large arrow.

“How cheery,” Tripp said.

They stepped to the check-in area of the morgue and waited a few minutes before the coroner arrived. She wasn't paged or called, she simply showed up while they were waiting. “The advantage of instant mental communication...” Tripp muttered, managing not to sound bitter. Her hand reached to her satchel-like purse where she kept her cell phone, thinking about the similarities.

“Officer Smith,” the coroner introduced herself, her voice smooth. She was clearly accustomed to speaking aloud, though her tone had an odd cadence to it. “Thank you for coming. My name is Doctor Lews, and I hope I can help you catch the killer.”

Tripp nodded with a sigh. Something about her voice reminded her of, well, everyone else. That was what the old humans probably feared, she reasoned. Something of the individual was lost when the Mindshare was gone. Maybe that's why childhood education was more concerned with creativity and having fun than facts and figures. Because the adults knew that once they joined the Mindshare, that innocent uniqueness would be subsumed into the conglomerate.

“I just hope I can get a clue from the damage here. The apartment, er, apartments were a mess.” Doctor Lews led the pair down the hall and into a room labeled 'cold storage 2' and 'staff access only.' The door was locked, something Tripp seldom saw; when practically everyone literally shared a brain, there was no need of locks. She swiped a keycard across a small plastic pad, and with a beep the door opened, leading them into a room with a set of sinks, gowns, masks, gloves, lockers, and various commom medical equipment and accessories, along with a small computer terminal at a desk.

“Please wash your hands and put on the masks and gloves,” the doctor said, demonstrating. It was a show for her sake, of course. She didn't remind the doctor that she'd done this once before, though mostly because it had been a few years and doctors were very particular in how one washed their hands.

Thus, a few moments later, the three entered the morgue.

It was cold inside, sending a shiver through Tripp's body. The hospital was already cold, compared to the hot Atlanta weather, but this was another level of chill completely. The rigid bodies of the recently deceased lay silent in drawers along one wall, green lights and digital labels indicating the common dead. Disease was seldom a concern in modern times; these people had likely all died of old age.

The bodies under white plastic sheets on seven of the twelve tables in the large room had not. The otherwise empty room's light cast harsh white clarity on the topography of the sheets, and it was clear that the cadavers beneath were not whole.

“I must warn you,” the doctor said grimly, “the bodies are...” Tripp cut her off via the expedient of yanking free the sheet from the closest body. Despite his knowledge and experience, Martinez winced. Tripp didn't. She'd seen worse.

The doctor, recovering from the interruption, began describing the physiological damage in tedious detail. Tripp let it drift past her; she wasn't a doctor or anything like one, but she knew what the word 'dismemberment' meant just fine. Historical texts referred to a form of torturous execution where the limbs were affixed to horses or machines, then slowly pulled in four different directions. This was worse than that sounded.

“He didn't just tear their arms out,” Tripp interrupted three victims in. “He tore their torsos apart doing it. Look at this Martinez,” she said, pointing at the cadaver. “He could have torn the arm out its socket, but instead he shattered the shoulder blade and a bunch of ribs and tore him apart that way. The other two were like this too, look at this lady's hip. Crushed in and yanked out. Weird.”

Officer Martinez and Doctor Lews stared at her silently. What were they saying to each other, to the Mindshare, she wondered, looking up at them and then down at the fourth victim. “Jeez, this one's just a kid...” Tripp said, her skin turning pale.

“Collateral damage,” Martinez said, referring to the victims from the other apartments nearby.

“No,” Tripp insisted, her eyebrows knitting together angrily. The mangled corpse on the table was female, judging by the face, but couldn't be older than twelve years. Her body was ripped up almost beyond recognition. “You don't tear somebody in half like ripping up a letter and call that 'collateral damage' Martinez. This guy is fucking crazy; he did this on purpose.

“But she didn't trigger the Rogue,” Martinez said.

“So what? Collateral damage is when you knock down a wall and accidentally break a water pipe. It's not when you kill someone, especially when it's deliberate!” Tripp snapped. The others remained quiet as Tripp collected herself. The doctor didn't resume her vocal explanation while Tripp walked through and looked at each corpse, looking by then as if she was confirming her hypothesis instead of analyzing them. Returning the last sheet, she held up one finger, walked over to the door, leaned over the trash can and vomited.

Panting, sweating, and spitting out the taste, she left the morgue the way she'd entered. Ten minutes later, Officer Martinez caught up with her, passing first morgue staff, then the rest of the medical personnel on his way. He needed neither map nor directions, and navigated the way to Tripp flawlessly. She sat in the cafeteria alone, clutching a large, half-emptied bottle of water in one hand, and covering her eyes with the other.

“I'm sorry,” he began, but she held up her hand to cut him off.

“It's okay, don't worry about it,” Tripp said quietly. “You people, you're all so damn cold blooded.” She leaned back and guzzled the rest of the bottle. Standing, she walked over to a large, standing fridge with a clear door, reached in, and grabbed two more bottles of water. She stepped back to the table and sat back down, cracking one's cap open with a twist. “There's so many of you rattling around in there that what's one more or less? And don't get me started on that 'their memories live forever' crap. I heard enough of that shit from my parents growing up.”

“It's true,” Martinez quietly replied.

“Maybe for you. Not for me. Not for Rodger Bisith. Not for anyone like us. Do you know why he went rogue? Because I have a pretty good guess.” Martinez replied by simply shaking his head.

“Stress. Did you know that all Silent are required to get quarterly physicals? Shut up, that was rhetorical, of course you know. We get out stress levels measured, and we get monthly social worker visits. It's a damn pain in the ass, but you know what? I almost look forward to it, just so I have somebody to fucking talk to! People are social, but people like me don't get to be. Everyone's exactly the same. Like clones, or robots, you know? That wears you down, makes you lonely and crazy. And we don't get together because one little argument, maybe a few beers, and the next thing you know, a city block is missing and somebody's calling for someone like me to hunt down everybody involved.”

With a sigh Tripp fell silent, then guzzled the second bottle of water. It was several minutes before she talked again. “Part of my journeyman years included a little psychology education for this very reason. Boring stuff, but useful. This poor bastard has probably lapsed into a fugue state. He's an angry four year old that can level buildings.”

“Somebody probably said something that night that, in his deteriorating mental state, pushed him over the edge and he couldn't handle it. He didn't kill them cleanly because to him it was like pulling parts off a doll, just grab somewhere and rip. To a strong Silent, human bodies might as well be wet clay. So, having gone on a murder rampage, he realizes what happens and can't deal with it, and regresses. He probably can't even remember his adulthood at this point.”

“That... makes sense.” Martinez said finally, his tone cautious.

“Oh for fuck's sake, sit down, you're making me nervous,” she said, waving her hand. “Ugh. I need a smoke. Or a drink. Wait, I don't suppose you can get one of these doctors to get me something to settle my nerves?” Martinez nodded, smiling a little. Several minutes went by before a nurse entered with a small paper cup, one pill inside. Tripp opened her third water bottle and took the medication, not bothering to ask what it was.

“Alright, let's go,” she announced, standing.

“Go where? Do you have an idea?” Martinez asked, sounding slightly confused.

“Yeah. I think so.”

* * *

“Thirty seven fifty two Zephyr Drive,” the computer announced helpfully. The doors slid open as the pair got out, Officer Martinez setting the vehicle to 'stand by' mode.

“Dispatch says they can have backup and emergency personnel here in five minutes,” he told Tripp as they stood looking up at the house. It was an older building, a small Sale' falling apart on the front lawn as time took its toll upon it. The house was in need of some maintenance, missing a shingle or two and with an uncut lawn, and that was just at a glance. The sun was setting, casting long shadows under the darkening gray sky, and the house stood dark and silent. Dark, save for one light in an upstairs window.

“Tell them to make it sooner; cordon off the street and throw up a perimeter around the block, but if Roger gets loose they are not to approach or engage. Oh, and no matter what, don't shoot him, not even with stunners. Not unless you want a massacre on your hands.”

“Are you sure that's him up there?” he asked, dubious.

“Do you know anyone up there?”

“No, but,”

“But nothing,” Tripp said. “It's him, or else another Silent. Either way, it's my problem. You stay down by the entrance in case I need backup.” She didn't sound like that was likely, or even possible for him, but she'd need somebody to call in the cavalry if something caught fire or exploded.

“Alright.”

They quietly walked up to the house, Tripp shifting her bag so that the strap crossed her whole torso, and thunder rumbled distantly overhead. The wind had picked up since the hospital, and the trees were noisy all about. Along the street, lights began to pop on, countering the growing darkness of the cloudy evening. The house was on a slight hill, and a few steps up led to a wide, screened front porch. Inside that, a large lock lay on the ground, the sort that realators put on doors to keep out curious kids that might get in otherwise.

Tripp squatted down at the door, and picked up the lock to examine it. Martinez pulled the flashlight out of his police belt and shined the small LED onto the lock. “That is one clean cut,” he said, looking at the severed hoop of solid steel that had been the shackle.

“Telekinetic,” Tripp whispered.

“How can you tell?” Martinez whispered back.

“No cut marks or dust, no laser slag. Perfectly clean, cut through at the atomic level. It's a Silent, unless you believe in ghosts.”

“Nobody believes in ghosts,” Martinez whispered wryly.

“Well then let's go. Keep your gun holstered if you want to live, and call for help if I scream.”

With Martinez looking suitably anxious, Tripp nodded and stood, holding the latch and opening it as silently as the door would allow. It squeaked a bit on its hinges, but nothing happened as the two walked inside, a gust of wind ushering them along. Martinez closed the door behind them with some effort, but it closed with another long squeak and a soft click.

Nodding silently, Tripp walked to the stairs and adjusted her jacket. She took a moment to remove her headband and smooth back her dark, windblown hair, replacing the band after and study the landing. The house was large, having housed the five member Bisith family for two dozen years, until after the kids had all married and moved out as was the norm, though Rodger had left first at seventeen.

According to public records, He had gone through the same training all Silent did, but he hadn't taken to it well and never went on to a journeymanship, preferring to try and find a creative calling. He never found a niche though, and spent his adulthood mostly looking for somewhere to belong, with no success. According to the file she'd read earlier, his last known attempt was horticulture, of all things.

The landing led left and right, with the dark cavern of the master bedroom on the left, and a short hallway counter to it. Several doors lined it, and from beneath one closed door, light leaked out. Cautiously, Tripp called out from the landing. “Rodger?” A soft thumping sound replied.

“Rodger?” she asked a little louder. She took a half step toward the door.

“Go away!” shouted a baritone voice that wavered a bit.

“My name is Tripp, and I came to talk with you,” she said, not moving. Silence hung in the dusty air. “Would you like to talk?” Tripp swallowed, finding her mouth and throat parched. She fought to control her breathing as it involuntarily quickened. Minutes that felt like hours stretched by before a reply came.

“Okay,” said the voice quietly.

“Okay,” Tripp replied, remembering not to sigh with relief. “Can I come into your room?”

“Okay,” he replied more readily. Something about his voice sounded unusual. Not wrong, but it confirmed Tripp's theory; his voice almost sounded child-like, despite its deep tone. Tripp walked softly to the bedroom door and turned the knob, pushing it open on creaking hinges.

Rodger Bisith sat in the empty room, the window open and a flashlight pointing at the ceiling to provide light. The dusty carpet had been disturbed, and though a few motes hung in the air, most was long gone, likely blown out by the powerful telekinetic sitting by one wall. He was a tall man with graying, blonde hair that had receded halfway up his scalp. He clearly hadn't shaved in days, and though his clothes were grimy from the room's dust, that wasn't what stood out.

Dried blood was splattered all over his short sleeved, button-up shirt and slacks, and crusty spots of it likewise speckled his arms and face. Worse, though, newer blood, some fresh, some congealing, covered his left hand, ran down his arm to his elbow, soaked the carpet, and crawled across the wall. Scrawling text, odd sketches and doodles, all done in blood. Rodger stood up as Tripp's wide eyes scanned the room.

“I'm finger painting,” Rodger said defensively. “This is my room, I can do it if I want.”

“Okay,” Tripp said quietly. The drawings were erratic, without context or apparent inspiration. The writing was incoherent, rambling sentences that looped around in confusing circles that meant nothing. Roger's left index finger dripped silently into the carpet.

“Where'd you get the, uh, paint?” she asked, still staring at the wall, her tone surprising her with its calm.

“It's mine,” he said, defensive still. “I didn't steal it.”

“I thought so,” she said honestly, nodding. She forced herself to blink, to calm her expression, but it was hard. She'd guessed right, the poor man had regressed. She was a little surprised; her last one had taken weeks to track down. “I like the drawings. Can you tell me about them?” It seemed the diplomatic thing to ask.

“That's my car,” he said proudly, pointing at an abstract blob. “That's my family.” The doodle was all hard-angled geometric shapes, with a squiggly circle in the middle. “That one's me.” Oh, and this is the time we went to Florida! That was fun, I liked the rides.” That one was just a swirling, looping mess. A map maybe?

“I've never been there, but I've heard it's fun,” Tripp said, squatting down. She really didn't want blood on her pants; it was soaked into Roger's in the back, once he stood up. He'd been sitting in some. “Roger, I'd like you to come with me,” Tripp said, focusing her thoughts. She needed to be ready.

“Where?” he asked, his face scrunching up into a suspicious vissage.

“We're going to the doctor's office,” she said.

“Doctor?” he asked, dubious.

“Yep. They just need to have a look at you, make sure you're healthy,” she lied.

“Why? I'm fine.”

“Its your hand,” she tried. “You cut yourself, see?”

“Cut?” he asked, holding up his hand to look at his bleeding finger. Without warning, his flashlight flew across the room and into his other hand with a slap. The tip was criss-crossed with scars, new, old, and ancient. How long had he been cutting himself, Tripp wondered?

“Look, see? We need to make sure it doesn't get infected,” she continued breathing calmly. His head tilted to one side slightly, eyes narrowing. For a brief moment some hint of lucidity entered his eyes.

“No!” he shouted, whipping his bloody arm as if to strike Tripp. Before she could even scream a shimmering bubble of blue-white light flashed around her, redirecting the energy of Roger's raw lashing attack. He threw so much force and ferocity into it that he blew her through the door and wall, and into the back of the house in a rain of dust and debris.

“Leave me alone!” he screamed, swatting at the space before him, tearing down the roof of the house onto Tripp's flickering bubble of kinetic force, rendering it visible wherever it struck before burying it completely. With a thunderous crash the floor caved in as he hammered at the ruin atop her again, screaming incoherently.

A wave of freezing air ripped through the air in a growing bubble around the debris, heat vanishing from the surroundings and feeding Tripp energy with which to continue. Roger fell and slid across the floor, shielding himself but too late; the blood on his skin froze, and a rime of frost clung to his body. He screamed as frostbite took its sudden toll, but the burns were shallow as he warmed himself to counter the effect.

“Get out of my house!” Roger shouted, running into the remains of the bathroom and the hole below it where the ruined roof was gone.

“Roger!” Tripp shouted. He turned, seeing her, panting and dirty but unharmed, at the landing atop the stairs. “Knock it off right now!”

“No!” he shouted again, and a white flash blinded Tripp as he pulled a bolt of lightning out of the overhead clouds. It was a trick Tripp had heard of, something about threading ions up to lead it down, a thought that drifted through her mind as she blinked at the huge purple blur in her vision that was blinding her, and her ears rang from the point-blank thunderclap. She took a knee and struggled to see again with a frustrated growl. Her hands clapped over her ears from the pain, and she felt blood.

Roger, too, was blinded, deafened, injured. He began lashing out wildly as he howled with fright and anger. One wall exploded, throwing shrapnel at Tripp's shield hard enough to knock her onto all fours, groaning from the amount of raw energy she was expending trying to deal with the madman.

“Dammit Roger, I want to help you!” she screamed over his voice.

“Liar!” A second lightning bolt appeared through the hole, and this one curved into Tripp instead of continuing to the ground below. Holding onto her shield as hard as she could, she skidded across the floor, tearing up boards and carpet, fire exploding around her shield as she redirected the raw energy; she couldn't absorb or block that kind of raw power, but it didn't hurt her any worse than she already was. She fought tiredly to regain her feet as Roger fought to see her.

“There's only one way this can end,” she snarled through gritted teeth, her voice frustrated and sad.

“You're just like everyone else!” Roger's voice cut through her ringing ears, amplified she suspected with his power. It came with a wave of force, one that Tripp deflected into the wall behind her, angling her shield to cause it to deflect at an obtuse angle.

“I'm like you!” she shouted, flinging her own wave of force back. She could feel how much stronger Roger was from his attacks, but she was good with telekinesis, and a blade of force sheared through his shield, refracted instead of deflected, and cut into his right arm. Shavings of clothes and muscle, and one little finger, fell to the ground in a rain of blood.

Roger howled in furious pain, charging at Tripp with rage in his eyes. He didn't run, but flew, the tips of his shoes skidding across the floor, tearing it up. Smoke rose around him as shield hit shield, and he overwhelmed hers in a blast of sparks. “Stop!” Tripp managed to scream before the large man's fingers closed around her throat.

Tripp couldn't breathe, she couldn't move; the weight of the whole house was crushing her chest, pinning her feet, Her arms hung painfully at her sides, trying to tear themselves out of their sockets. It was Roger's mind, his will crushing air down atop her with brute force.

Control, she thought as darkness closed in around the edges of her vision. Blood exploded out of Roger's wrists as a wire-thin thread of compressed air whipped up through them, severing his hands clean off. Tripp fell onto her back, gasping, the pressure of his grip and power both vanishing instantly. Around her, the ruined room was catching fire, and the heat of it washed over her as she coughed raggedly, fighting to breathe, her windpipe feeling bruised.

Screaming filled the air. Roger impotently fell to his knees, trying to do something, anything, to stop the blood loss. He was incoherent, and Tripp looked at him, ears still ringing but hearing him anyway. Pity washed over her as she struggled to her knees, then stood, staggering.

“Roger, come on, we need to get out of here!” she shouted. Thunder cracked outside, and Roger screamed, staring wild-eyed at Tripp. She stared back, exhausted, holding out her hand to him.

“No!” he screamed, and Tripp felt a bolt of raw kinetic force as it flew at her. A rapid shield formed, reflecting the shot, and Rodger's scream cut off abruptly. Eyes wide, blood leaking from his head where the bolt landed, off-center above one eyebrow. The body toppled over, and Tripp cried out.

“I'm sorry!” Her voice was raw, and she fell back to her knees, placing both hands on the bloody body of Roger Bisith. “I'm so sorry!” she sobbed, tearlessly shuddering as her head lowered between her hands.

Someone tried to grab Tripp Smith, and she flailed, screaming. Orange flickering light surrounded them, and smoke filled the air; the people were strange, with alien, mechanical faces and thick, incomprehensible voices. She fought to focus, to lash out, to shield herself, but the smoke permeated her brain, and her mind refused to obey. The strange people dragged her from the fire while her ragged voice fought to scream, to call for help, anything! It was futile. They had her, they overpowered her, and Tripp's vision fell to darkness.

* * *

Two weeks later, Tripp sat on the steps outside the Atlanta Central PD. It was a new building, only a decade old, rising impressively five stories over the surrounding commercial district, trees thickly scattered on the property and beyond. She took a long drag on a hand-rolled cigarette, closing her eyes and blowing it out slowly a moment later. The sun shone through the leaves, but she wore a new pair of black sunglasses with bright red frames that suited the local weather well, sunny as it usually was. Warm, too, and she sat on her leather coat rather than wear it. It had been cleaned, and had a few burn scars in it but no holes; it was in pretty good shape after her ordeal, made to last.

“You just got out of the hospital for smoke inhalation; are you sure you should be sucking on one of those?” asked officer Martinez as he stepped down and sat beside her. She felt relaxed, and shrugged.

“It's not like I don't get booster shots for the cancer,” she replied blithely. The last person to even get the disease in some way or another was over thirty years ago, thanks to regular vaccinations.

“Where do you even get marijuana anyway?” he asked with a laugh in his voice.

“I grow it back home. Isn't hard, the stuff'll grow anywhere there's light and water. It's practically a weed.” she replied, blowing more of the smoke away from him. “Anyway, it helps me calm down.”

“Well I'm glad to see you're recovered. How are the burns?”

“They're fine. They injected me with something and the skin healed right up. They said I should follow up back home next week, just to be sure. I just wish my hair would grow back that fast.” She sighed, running her hand over her now much shorter hair; she'd gotten it cut earlier in the day, since it had singed off in places unevenly.

“It's a good look,” he said quietly.

“I guess,” she replied. They sat there in silence, a small space between them. It wasn't far, but to Tripp it felt symbolic, an impassable gulf, a metaphor for her entire life. She took another long drag from the joint.

“Are you going back to Chicago?” he asked.

“Yeah. It's almost fall. I like it when the trees turn color.” Martinez laughed, shaking his head.

A car, yellow with black checkers, rolled up to the curb, and the cell phone in her purse let out a muted chirp. “I guess that's you,” Martinez said, his voice a little sad. Tripp didn't answer, but stood and stretched, her new shirt and pants stretching slightly with her.

“It was good working with you Martinez,” she said, not looking at him.

“Louis,” he replied. Tripp's lip curled into a half-smile on one side.

“Goodbye Officer Martinez,” she replied back, looking at him this time.

“Goodbye Officer Smith,” he replied quietly, offering his hand. They shook hands, Tripp enjoying the rare physical contact. It wasn't likely to happen again for a while. Breaking away, she walked quickly down the stairs and climbed into the automated vehicle, which closed up and drove away with an electric hum.

Tripp sighed and leaned back as the chair adjusted to her bodily contours and the seat belt automatically slid into place. She reached out to tap the radio, and it started playing a selection based on her cellphone's preferences without asking. She looked out the window, sadness moistening her eyes even as Elvis began crooning over the speakers. Atlanta became a blur, and stayed that way all the way to the train station and beyond.