Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (5 page)

“What incident?” I mumble.

His eyes meet mine. “At W.
P. Headquarters,” he replies coolly.

I shrink back from the
intensity of his gaze, and in a single moment, everything I’ve been wondering
about seems to come full circle. I wasn’t sure if what happened at the exam had
anything to do with this place. But now that he’s asked me, the
way
that
he’s asked me, it’s enough to tell me that my little breakdown was worse than I
thought.

“Is that why I’m here?” I
whisper.

He stares at me, his eyes
piercing as he seems to consider my question. “Yes.”

He rests back in his chair
as that forced smile reappears. I lean forward in response, scrambling to find
an excuse that might get me out of this.

“What happened was a
misunderstanding! I’m really sorry, and I promise to sit the exam again—” I
fumble my words, and I can feel my cheeks flush as I become increasingly
panicked.

I stare at him in
desperation, hoping my plea will be enough to get me off the hook. But any
hopes I had are destroyed once I see the amused expression creeping across his
face.

“That won’t be necessary,”
he says with a small laugh.

My heart seems to drop into
the bottom of my feet. I swallow. The confusion and fear mold into one twisted
mess and contribute to the lump now rising in my throat. I watch Dr. Richter
carefully, trying to find something beneath the mask he’s worn since the moment
we met. Something about him seems
off
, and I can tell that his kindness
is insincere. It isn’t natural, despite how hard he tries to make it appear as
if it is.

He breaks eye contact with
me and peers down at the tablet placed on the table in front of him. His
fingers tap against the screen three times. “Could you confirm the following,
please?” He looks back up at me and smiles. “Name?”

“Wynter Reeves,” I answer,
wondering why he’s asking me when he already knows the answer.

“Identification number and
date of birth?”

“73956241. October 14,
2040.”

He wavers for a moment to
look down at the tablet. “Blood type?” he asks.

“O negative,” I murmur. But
as I say these words, I remember what that woman said before.

“Her blood type. It’s . . .
changing.”

Suddenly, I’m not so sure.

Dr. Richter simply nods his
head and proceeds with his line of questioning. “Mother’s name?”

I think of my mother. Of
what she did. Of how she didn’t even defend me: her daughter. Her only child.

“Evandra Reeves.” I’m
unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice.

“Father’s name and date of
death?”

I stare at him, both
confused and alarmed as to why he’s asking me this. I swallow, trying hard not
to make it obvious that the question has upset me. “Freston Reeves,” I stammer.
“September 9 . . . 2047.”

“Address?” Dr. Richter
continues without pause.

“A19, Unit 34, Zone 2.”

“And what business did you
have at W. P. Headquarters?”

Now I feel annoyed. He
knows the answer, so why ask? What’s with all the formalities? What
exactly
does he want with me? Gritting my teeth, I decide I have no choice except to
humor him for the time being.

“I was sitting my placement
exam,” I grumble.

He immediately glances up
and meets my gaze, looking significantly more interested than he did a moment
ago.

“What sector were you
projected to enter?” he asks. There’s a genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Financial. The banking
branch,” I answer flatly.

He smiles, but there’s
something about this new expression that’s even more unsettling than the forced
grin twisting his lips.

“You must be very
intelligent to have been designated to that particular career,” he croons.
“Financial often leads to a very stable and fulfilling life.”

His eerie tone causes a
shudder to run up my spine. A wave of relief washes over me when he looks back
down at the table. A few moments pass in silence until we reach the very topic
I’ve been hoping to avoid.

“Could you please explain
what happened during the exam?”

His eyes fix on mine, and I
find myself debating about whether or not I should tell him the truth. Biting
my lip, I try time and again to swallow the lump blocking my throat. Should I
tell him? What will happen if I do? But then again . . . what will happen if I
don’t? Besides, I want to know what happened to me just as much as he does. If
I tell him, maybe I’ll finally get that answer.

“I don’t know,” I whisper,
my voice just audible. “One minute, I was fine. The next I had a splitting
headache, my vision was blurring, and . . .” I hesitate.

“And?” he presses.

“And then . . . it was like
I was someplace else. I was seeing things that weren’t physically
there
,
even though it felt like they were. Then I was back in the exam room.”

I look up at Dr. Richter.
His eyebrows are scrunched together as he seems to mull over my words.

“What did you see?” he
asks.

All of a sudden, I’m not
sure that I made the right decision. I think back on what I saw. I remember how
terrifying it was. How
real
. But it couldn’t have been real. It was
nothing more than a bizarre side effect of an ill-timed panic attack. Was that
really worth getting myself into more trouble over?

But real or not, it’s too
late to back out now. They already have me.

It’s too late.

“Destruction,” I breathe.

I notice his eyes widen
before he clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. He nods his head but
doesn’t speak. I’m not sure whether I should be alarmed by his silence, but I
can’t find the nerve to say anything more to him.

An awkward hush fills the
room, and I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Goosebumps
prickle my skin, and I realize that the suspense hanging between us is even
worse than my fear.

I’m about to speak up—to
say anything to break the silence—when he begins to drum on the tablet. His
fingers swipe at the screen, and in one swift movement, he turns it toward me.

“I’d like you to examine
the following documents,” he says. “Let me know if anything from this
information seems familiar to you.”

I stare down at the tablet,
feeling weirdly on edge about what he’s asking me to do. My fingers tremble as
they hover above the screen. I look back up at him uncertainly, but he simply
jerks his head, reiterating for me to do as he’s asked.

Reluctantly, I begin to
scroll through the documents. They appear to be identification records, but
they’re all for people I’ve never met or even heard of. I have no idea what I’m
supposed to be looking for. The only similarity I can find between them is that
they all suffered from one form or other of mental deterioration.

Or, in other words,
insanity.

“I’m sorry. I don’t
recognize any of them,” I whisper.

“Don’t focus on the people,
focus on their traits.” He urges with a wave of his hand for me to have another
look.

I scroll through the
documents again. However, just like before, I’m at a loss for what it is that
he wants me to see. When a few minutes go by without either of us speaking, I
vaguely notice him place an object on the table in front of me. Glancing up, my
eyes land on a small mirror.

“Look into it,” he prompts.

I raise an eyebrow at him,
but he doesn’t offer any explanation. All too aware that I have no other
choice, I gaze down into the mirror to see my eyes staring back at me.

One green. One blue. The
same as they’ve always been since the day I was born.

“Have you ever heard of a
condition called Ultraxenopia?” he suddenly asks.

I peek up from the mirror
and slowly begin to shake my head. Without saying anything more, he reaches
across the table and retrieves both the tablet and the mirror.

“Like the people in these
documents, you have a rare genetic defect known as Heterochromia,” he explains.
“To put it in more simple terms, your eyes are two different colors. Although
the disorder itself is completely harmless, we are beginning to link it to a
far more serious condition. A phrenoextratic disease called Ultraxenopia.”

He pauses, allowing a brief
moment for this information to sink in. The trouble is that I have no idea what
any of it means. Just as I have no idea what he expects me to say. I stare at
him, feeling even more confused than I already was, and even more concerned
about my current situation.

A serious condition,
he
had said.
A disease.

But how serious?

Dr. Richter clears his
throat and folds his hands across the table. His expression is intense.
Frightening, even. Another shudder runs up my spine.

“I believe that the
hallucination you experienced during your exam—” He breaks off, but his eyes
linger on mine, almost seeming to stare right through me. “I believe it was
actually a vision. A glimpse into the future.”

I gape at him, wondering if
this is all actually nothing more than some sick, twisted joke. But as the
thought runs through my head, I can’t help but doubt it.

If what I saw wasn’t a
vision, then what was it?

“That’s impossible,” I
gasp.

Dr. Richter doesn’t seem at
all surprised by my skepticism and responds by pulling out a device, which he
sets on the table between us. He pushes a button on the side with a single
swipe of his long finger.

I watch as a hologram
lights up above it, revealing what appears to be surveillance footage. I
instantly recognize W. P. Headquarters. The automated female voice drones in
the background, and I can see myself taking the exam as if I'm back in that
room. My entire body tenses up as I anticipate witnessing my so-called vision.

I notice it happening
almost at once. I practically relive the pain, remembering the agonizing stabs
that shot through both of my temples. The seconds tick by, and my eyes follow
my movements as I double over in my seat. When I eventually stand up, I can
clearly see the sweat dripping off me, despite the camera being positioned in
the far corner of the room.

Without warning, my body
begins to spasm as if I’m having a fit. This goes on for many minutes, until
all of a sudden, I stop moving completely. I stand immobile as my eyes wander
around the room. A peculiar, almost lifeless expression covers my face.

At first, I don’t realize
that my lips are moving. I peer over at Dr. Richter, only to find that he’s
watching me with rapt attention. He nods toward the hologram, and I lean in
closer, listening carefully.

“The end,”
I hear myself say in a
toneless voice.
“The end . . . it’s coming.”

I repeat this several
times. With each repetition, I feel my heart rate increasing as a fresh wave of
panic rushes through me. Why can’t I remember that happening? I remember
everything else, so why not that?

My entire body reels back
when the version of me in the surveillance footage begins to scream at the top
of her lungs. I gape at her in horror, seeing the lack of control in her every
movement. Finally, she seems to come to her senses and runs from the room
almost immediately after.

Dr. Richter reaches forward
and shuts off the device. The hologram disappears at once, and he stashes it
away before looking back up at me. His expression is unreadable, but I can see
the anticipation in his eyes. He says nothing, instead waiting for me to react.

“That’s impossible . . . .”
I say again. It’s all I can manage.

His lips pull up into a
tight smile. “Perhaps,” he muses. “However, the tests we’ve already run on you
show remarkable things. Things that, quite frankly, wouldn’t be possible if you
were normal.”

I study him, wary of what I
now realize he’s about to say to me.

“Nevertheless,” he
continues, his voice a soft purr, “we won’t know for sure until we run more
tests. I’d like your permission to do that.”

I find it difficult to keep
myself from laughing. My permission? Like
they
ever need permission to
do anything.

“Won’t you just do them
anyway, regardless of what I say?”

“Yes,” he admits. “But I
prefer my subjects to be cooperative.”

He smirks at me, and I
can’t help but catch sight of the terrifying glint in his eyes. It’s
alarming—just like his smile, which is noticeably more forced with each passing
second.

He folds his hands again
and leans across the table, his voice now nothing more than a menacing whisper.
“You’d be providing a great service, not only to science, but to the State as
well.”

I stare at him.

Frightened.

Confused.