Page 3 of Breakaway

Det. Raiden Cortés

Chaplain County Police Department

769-818-0258

A watery laugh escaped me before I could bite it back, but coincidences like that didn’t happen, least of all to me. It spurred me on, giving me the confidence I needed to execute the second part of the plan. Over the years, Veritas had somehow managed to acquire signal jammers, but their reach didn’t cover the entirety of the compound. After several close calls, a merciful opening finally came in the form of Tobias being called away unexpectedly, leaving me a small window of opportunity, during which my whereabouts would go unmonitored. I’d snagged one of the many ancient flip phones Tobias kept in the bottom drawer of his nightstand and ran as fast as my feet would carry me to the eastern corner of the property.

I was doubtful that Detective Cortés would even remember me, but much to my relief, he’d not only remembered me; he’d also been awaiting my call. I’m sure the rushed twenty-minute chat we had was nothing more than an info-dump that left him reeling, likely questioning my sanity in the process. But the fact that he didn’t immediately write me off, thinking me nothing more than a bored housewife with too much time on her hands, did wonders for the incredibly depleted reservoir of faith I had.

It didn’t take long for his superiors to get involved. Once they understood the enormity of the situation, they wasted no time contacting the FBI, who eventually took the lead, with local authorities agreeing to assist on an as-needed basis. After a brief back-and-forth regarding logistics, I agreed to be the inside man and pass along any pertinent, time-sensitive information as quickly as possible. To gather as much evidence as I could without raising any alarms, so when Veritas’ day of reckoning came, there’d be no weaseling their way out of the multitude of charges they’d be facing. My only caveat was that Cortés remained the liaison between the other parties involved and me.

We coordinated with a local officer so I could retrieve a burner phone from a specified drop point during my next outing to the Farmer’s Market. Trying to swipe one of Tobias’ every time I needed to make contact was far too risky, and though it terrified me to bring something so damning back to the compound, I knew it was essential to have a way of communicating. It was too risky for Detective Cortés to be involved, seeing as we’d already engaged publicly with far too many witnesses, so we agreed that any further contact would need to be through telephonic means.

One conversation led to another, until somehow, I found myself reaching out just because I wanted to. Sometimes, we didn’t even talk about the hell I was experiencing or the case they were building to bring this place to its proverbial knees. I was eager to hear about his day, for the reminder that life existed beyond the walls I’d been confined to for the better part of a decade. He’d tell me silly stories about his co-workers and the shenanigans his neighbors, Colsen and Dayton, had gotten up to. I could tell he was loath to share the scarce few minutes I was able to steal away and chat. Still, he never once forbade the men next door from speaking with me as well, which inevitably turned into the three of them bickering. At the same time, I tried my hardest to muffle the laughter their lighthearted bantering elicited. And for the first time in far too long, my smiles were genuine.

Dayton seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to my poorly restrained anger. He’d purposely rile me up, giving me an outlet to vent my rage at. He’d take everything I gave him without holding it against me. Col, on the other hand, would keep things light and upbeat. He’d spend countless hours regaling me with stories from his and Dayton’s childhood, happily divulging their most embarrassing moments, as long as it kept my thoughts a million miles from my current reality. Between the three of them, I began to believe that hope actually existed.

Detective Cortés, however, became so much more than just my point of contact. He became Raiden, the friend I didn’t know I needed and a lifeline that kept me going when the weight I was shouldering felt too heavy to carry. Logically, I knew that behind the scenes there was a whole team of people working around the clock, but it didn’t feel that way when none of them were actually there with me, enduring every painstaking day. I was one person trying to do the impossible, and whenever I’d start to doubt my ability to see things through, Raiden would bring me back from the brink of a spiral with his unwavering reassurance.

I’d only seen him in person once, but I could detail every inch of his face with perfect recollection. The way a faint scar bisected his left eyebrow. How his bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top, or the nearly onyx color of his five o’clock shadow. The image was so vivid because I’d recall it every time I was desperate to feel a sense of safety. When Tobias would force me to The Pit as penance for a crime I didn’t commit, my body wracked with shivers from the freezing rain as I tried to dissociate from the fact I was lying at the base of a trench amongst the butchered carcasses of Veritas’ livestock, it was the memory of him I clung to.

Just knowing Raiden existed was enough to keep me sane in a place where sanity was a rare commodity. He made me eager for the life I’d have once this was all over, and through him, I got to experience a small portion of the world I’d been deprived of. And I knew, wholeheartedly, if I would’ve changed my mind at any point and confessed I couldn’t take a second more of being their go-between, Raiden would’ve led the charge and made certain I was granted my freedom. A part of me thinks he’d eagerly throw the entire investigation down the drain if it meant I could finally put this chapter to rest. But I’m fully aware that the intel I’m feeding them is far more beneficial than what they could learn on their own.

So I stay the course. For seven excruciating months, I do my part and pretend a piece of me doesn’t die every time I’m forced to bend to Tobias’ whims. The disgust I feel from his touch is repressed to the point of making me physically ill, but I’ll be damned if my inability to compartmentalize is the reason our cover is blown. Despite knowing it’s a dead-end path to send my thoughts down, I still reminisce about the years Tobias meant the world to me. How he’d once pilfered a deck of Uno cards while being away on an outreach mission, just to sate my boredom. We’d spent hours playing hand after hand, lost in our own little world that didn’t have space for anyone else. If you’d have told me then what our future entailed, I wouldn’t have believed for a second that the boy I’d come to love would lift a finger towards me in anger. And the pain of how wrong I was still feels like a lightning strike some days.

If only I had the ability to see the destruction that awaited me. Even the smallest bit of insight would have been advantageous. I should have run when I had the chance, when the eyes of the Elders and Tobias weren’t scrutinizing my every move. Whatever misgivings I had before, they’ve grown tenfold since then. I often think back to that day in The Atrium, when I first questioned who Tobias truly was–a complacent sheep or the hapless son of a monster with no authority to change the status quo.

Turns out, he’s neither; he’s simply a parasitic leech who robs the weak-minded of their autonomy and excels at breeding doubt, making you question if your intuition is faulty and not to be trusted. The foreshadowing couldn’t have been any more blatant, but when you deprive a person of basic human connections throughout their entire existence, eventually, they’ll start to accept the scraps they’re being fed, while somehow convincing themselves it’s a sustainable way of life. But they’re actually starving, desperate for a modicum of intimacy, and that degree of forlorn desire leads to a vulnerability so acute it easily allows those with wicked intentions to seep inside the cracks bred by loneliness, rearranging the person you are into whatever they want you to be.

I led with my heart, confident it was in the best hands possible, only to have it shredded, the battered ribbons flailing in the wind like a white flag. This place brutalizes your psyche, wearing you down until there’s nothing left worth fighting for. Eventually, you succumb to the torment, accepting the fate you’ve been force-fed–be that death or submission. But for people like me, who’ve fought their entire lives for the right to exist in a world that’s intent on extinguishing them, we don’t go quietly. We rattle the cages we’ve been confined to, constantly searching for a point of weakness we can exploit to our benefit. Whatever it takes–any manner of torture–will be well worth the psychological damage I’ll be sorting through for years to come, so long as I’m freed of this hellscape when it inevitably burns to the ground.

2

Andilyn

It’s Sunday, which means the majority of our day has been spent in Convocation. For hours, we’re forced to listen to an Elder monologue about the fabric of our souls, how untwining the opposing natures residing within us is a delicate balance, and that the cleansing process should be approached with care, lest your true soul be damaged during the quest for purification. I find that ironic, seeing as their methods are heavily rooted in pain, especially when Tainted are forced to participate in monthly blood-letting rituals. Strapped to a wooden chair with ancient leather cuffs, we’re locked inside a dank, dirt-floor room without a shred of light. For the longest hour in existence, the slow drip of a partly pinched IV catheter is meant to gradually expunge the demonic entity that’s supposedly hitched a ride earthside.

The first time I experienced that particular brand of exorcising, I couldn’t help but marvel at the revelation that they were using actual medical equipment. It contrasted with their rustic way of living, but that thought process led me to wonder how many people they’d lost over the years to a lack of knowledge and proper supplies. How many suffered through their trial and error until they got it right? If I had to guess–too many. Unfortunately, giving us an iron deficiency is the least of their crimes.

“Go pick some fresh daisies for the table, Andilyn. It’s almost time,” Ada harshly orders, shooing me out the back door. My supposed mother-in-law has become a second reckoning for my spiritual healing, giddily wielding the self-righteous baton her son passes off when he can’t be bothered with making my life utterly miserable. Sundays routinely conclude with a House-specific gathering, which is the extent of any fellowship we partake in, though I’d prefer eternal solitude over communing with any of these people, especially the Stillwaters.

The second I’m free of her scrutiny, I drag in a much-needed breath of fresh air. Any chance I’m given to be alone is savored, as moments like this are few and far between, but the heaviness of the past few weeks is beginning to take a toll. I take care in choosing which flowers to pick, knowing Tobias finds fault in everything he can. The garden at House Stillwater is meticulous, but I hate to think of the reason their daisies bloom so beautifully. This property is drenched in death, but I’ve always taken solace in knowing that something organic and pure has grown in the place of such tragedy.

The only upside to this evening’s dinner will be the lack of Kennedy’s presence. Tobias’ father has fallen ill, and while the members of Veritas have been made aware of the situation, they have no idea how serious it truly is. Tobias has kept their dealings to a minimum in order to avoid any of them prying too deeply. Stillwater descendants have maintained control of Veritas since its inception, but there’s been an uptick in disgruntled members voicing their frustration with the current progression of things. Tobias knows his age and inexperience are factors they’ll try to use against him when the truth is finally revealed and he insists on taking his father’s place, but they’re far too late to stage a coup. The power Tobias wields is already insurmountable.

In Kennedy’s absence, his son has taken the reins, eager to fill the vacancy and take control of what he perceives is rightfully his. Even amongst the deranged, there’s protocol and procedure, all of which Tobias has effectively thrown out the window. He’s no longer a messenger or acting on his father’s behalf. He’s dishing out orders and making decisions he has no authority to make, and when the Elders discover the true extent of Tobias’ involvement in recent proceedings, there’s going to be an uproar. While I’d love nothing more than to sit back and watch them tear themselves apart from the inside, for the sake of the innocents that’ll be caught in the crossfire of two opposing evils, I’m hopeful the FBI can precede the bloodbath that’s sure to come.

Like I’ve always known they would at some point, the numbers aren’t aligning. It’s not exactly easy to recruit those of us with heterochromia. It’s not particularly common, and though their intellect is questionable, the Elders have created a system that produces fairly decent results. As a rule, they tend to target victims who are easily impressionable or lack any sort of support system, but they’ve adapted, casting their net to a wider audience in recent years. Veritas hasn’t flourished as long as it has by acting rashly, though. They’re methodical with who they approach, tailoring their sales pitch to suit the needs and desires of each individual. It’s far easier to brainwash a person who’s already susceptible to the indoctrination they’re peddling than it is to start from scratch.

But times have drastically changed since the first initiates. At present, Ada is the eldest living Tainted, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of us in terms of longevity. The current members are too trigger-happy, their callousness growing more unwieldy as time continues to pass without their depravity being sated. I haven’t the faintest idea how they managed to build their numbers in the earlier years, when technology wasn’t as advanced as it is today, but if given the opportunity, I’d happily delve into the history of their sordid beginnings. It’d be nice to know what the catalyst was for the ruination of so many innocent lives.

Possibly even more disturbing than Veritas’ ability to ferret out a person’s vulnerabilities is the knowledge of their mission being so easily accessible to the general public. Imagine my shock when I learned that Veritas has a website. It outlines their ideology, albeit a watered-down version, but it doesn’t require much effort to find. How else would they magically stumble upon a person who possesses a mutation, whether genetic or acquired, that affects less than one percent of the global population? It’s so improbable that Veritas never would’ve flourished if their recruitment relied solely on happenstance. It’s ironic, really, how off-grid they portray themselves to be, yet still rely so heavily on modern technology.

Of course they don’t advertise the gory details of what actually takes place once you’re within their grasp. But like every charismatic cult leader who’s ever existed, they reel you in with language that appeals to the lost and lonely. Once they’ve established that “us versus them” mentality and convinced you to isolate yourself from any remaining friends or family, it’s next to impossible to find your way home again. They break you down so completely you actually start to believe their vitriol, convincing yourself that something evil resides within you and the only people capable of eradicating it are the very ones you conveniently find yourself in the company of. I could’ve easily been another casualty. If I weren’t so stubborn and pragmatic, I’d likely be catatonic from the sheer amount of hate they’ve leveled at me.

The only actual secret they covet is who Veritas truly is. No one knows the identities of the members until someone initiates contact. Inquiring persons are directed to a questionnaire via their website. A high-level member then reviews their information, performs a cursory background check, and determines if they warrant a trial run, which involves a secondary person trailing their every move for a minimum of seventy-two hours. Only then, after all checks and balances come back free and clear, does someone finally make contact.

The cloak-and-dagger approach is partly to ensure they aren’t recruiting someone who’s going to generate a missing person’s report, but mostly it’s to protect the exact location of their operation. The only thing remotely connecting Veritas’ online presence to the compound is a wrought iron eye emblazoned on the sliding steel gate that secures the property. We’re so far off the beaten path it’d be unlikely for anyone to stumble across us by accident, so that minuscule breadcrumb is all but insignificant.