Chapter Three:

warnings for: violence, implied/referenced child abuse, panic attacks, anxiety language, discussion of a hate crime, discussion of past murder, some gore, PTSD

With retrospect, Isabella doesn’t remember much of traveling, which is probably for the best. She spends the majority of their time in the car clutching her backpack to her chest and breathing shallowly, staring at the floor. Every sharp jolt of the vehicle, whether it’s a turn or a stop, sends a pulse of anxiety up through her chest. To her mortification, Hitori clearly notices this, because he starts to make an effort to be slower and more careful. 

It helps more than she wants to admit. Humiliated, but grateful, she feels terrible she can’t even manage a grimace as thanks. 

After they get to a cramped airport on the outskirts of L.A.—apparently sublet by NAMCU and the local army base—she and Aza are herded from the car to the awaiting runway, bypassing security altogether. It’s been cleaned off hastily, but effectively, streaks of snow lining the sides like walls. The plane, if Isabella had to hazard a guess, is some type of government-issued private jet. 

Snow is beginning to fall in earnest now, so Isabella braces herself for a long delay before they can take off, but there isn’t one. The weather, as far as she can tell, is ignored entirely, which bodes well for their safety. It’s not like snowstorms crash planes or anything. 

After being thoroughly frisked for weapons, again—a bizarrely necessary decision because Aza, somehow, still had two knives—she and Aza are herded from the car directly to the plane. The NAMCU agents follow after them, taking the chairs around them and leaving their weapons exposed. The threat isn’t subtle. 

Aza takes the seat between her and the aisle in the middle of the plane, which practically paints out to her how nervous he is, and only makes her own anxiety start to spiral. She cycles through NAMCU’s Troll Bridge again, a soothing way to restart her panic attack. 

God, she wishes they could just kill her, but they can’t. She can’t die, and that would be the most merciful option here than being enslaved to NAMCU’s whims. 

She’s never been on a plane before. She and Aza drove over the border five years ago, crawled their way up to California and have been jumping around SoCal ever since. These aren’t the best circumstances to handle first-flight jitters. 

When Aza tugs her sleeve down her wrist and rests a hand on her forearm, it’s so unexpected that she jumps. He keeps it there, despite that, and Isabella takes in deep breaths to relax by inches. She wants to hold his hand like a child crossing the street, but that would be pushing things. 

Despite their initial caution, it’s almost as if once they get used to her in the corner of their eye, Isabella becomes an unremarkable decoration to the NAMCU agents. All of them pull down their masks and shove up their goggles, or take off their helmets, and seeing human faces beneath the visors is almost painfully jarring. 

A white girl in her late teens or early twenties with long, blonde hair that’s so pale it’s almost silver sits across from Isabella’s row beside a young adult a few years older. He’s East Asian, his dark hair matted against his forehead, his soft round face dotted with freckles. Aksana doesn’t have any, hard cheekbones, large eyes, a button nose. The girl sheathes her blue-white scaetel sword and sets it on the floor between her feet, before leaning forward to her companion and says something that makes him laugh. 

Isabella is hit with a wave of unexpected fury. They’re human. Of course they’re human, but they’re human, not voiceless, emotionless killing machines. 

Hitori comes back from the front a minute later without Hazel, who vanished inside the pilot’s cabin almost ten minutes ago. “Take off is going to be rough,” he warns, stopping in front of both of them.

“You’ll want to be buckled in,” he looks pointedly at Aza, who hadn’t bothered to do so yet. Isabella strapped in immediately after sitting down, not that a single strap around her waist feels like it’s going to do much else than cut her in half if they crash.

Aza’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “How are you going to fly in that?” he asks, gesturing a thumb toward the window and the blizzard beyond. 

Hitori’s lip quirks. “That’s why we brought Dr. Williams,” he answers. Isabella nods like that made any sense to her. Right. That is why they brought Hazel, obviously. She can just…stop snowstorms, even though Hazel is an air-user, and they’re notoriously useless when it comes to controlling the weather. That's water’s domain. 

Aza is scowling again, but his tone is almost goading. He can never seem to help himself, like he’s hoping he gets them into trouble, “And what is she going to do? There’s no way she can get this plane off the ground without Pressure Generation, but NAMCU would never use an illegal ability, would it? Gravi-Mani needs to be contained.” 

The blonde girl snorts. Hitori’s expression fills with exasperation and he lifts a finger as she opens her mouth. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” the woman protests, revealing a thick Russian accent. 

“And you don’t need to, so be quiet, Aksana.” Hitori’s command is filled with warning. He doesn’t even look at her. Aksana’s mouth snaps shut. A wave of deep, rolling annoyance passes across her features.

“NAMCU doesn’t use illegal abilities, Mr. Alvarez. We enforce those laws for a reason,” Hitori explains it like he’s reciting it from a textbook. His eyes tell another story, and it’s long. “Just buckle your seatbelt. Dr. Williams will get us to our destination safely. She always does.” 

“Always?” The word is dangerous off Aksana’s lips, but Isabella isn’t sure that she meant to say it outloud, because her icy blue eyes widen with surprise. 

Hitori’s brow draws together and he twists around to really look at Aksana for the first time. The two hold a long, weighted stare. Aksana’s lips slowly spread into something vicious, her gaze dropping to Isabella. It reminds her of Padre Diaz. That look he would give her. Like she was a piece of meat he was incapable of deciding was so rotten it needed to be thrown out, or so fresh he couldn’t wait to start carving. 

“Ah.” Aksana intones.

Tension, cold and invasive and thick, settles across all of them. Isabella shrinks back. Aza shifts to block her from sight, shoulders stiff. Everyone looks like a significant…thing just happened, but Isabella can’t, for the life of her, figure out what. 

She can’t see Hitori’s face, but Aksana is smirking now, and Aza swears in Spanish under his breath. All Aksana did was say something. How was that in any way momentous?

No one offers an explanation, and the silence holds until Aksana says, delighted, “‘Always’ really is such an overstatement, my dear director. Hazy-Daisy has never proven herself to be reliable unless it’s for manslaughter.” The stare she levels at Hitori is amused rather than challenging. 

Hitori’s eyes jump to Isabella, and for a second she sees fierce resentment in his face, but it’s gone so quickly she doesn’t think it was for her. He takes one of the empty seats across from Aza, buckling himself in. “Hazel didn’t kill the Stupidos and you know that. You were barely inconvenienced, you don’t need to keep dragging it up at every opportunity.” 

The stu-what-os? 

Isabella looks between all of them, digging her nails into her arm, extracting her hand from Aza’s to do it and regretting it immediately. Her fingers are going numb, but she doesn’t care. What did she get herself into? She’s barely spent five minutes talking to these people and they’re already discussing the murders they’ve committed? Sawyer is lucky he didn’t get added to their gleaming lists. 

“Oh, so when Hazy-Daisy kills again, are their families supposed to just forgive her for the inconvenience?” Aksana demands. The man beside her scoffs in agreement, and Aksana says in a soft, deadly sing-song, “Should have kept her in the psych ward, Director Adachi.” 

“What?” Isabella blurts. 

What psych ward? 

Aza shoots her a warning look, which annoys her. Like his mouth hasn’t gotten them into messes over the last five years?

Aksana’s head rolls lazily along the seat to look at her. Their gazes lock. The girl’s blue eyes are violent, but Aksana herself looks cadaverous. Hollow-eyed, skin chalky save a flush of fever, short and gaunt. With her long hair falling over her thin shoulders like a veil, she almost looks like a flickering projection instead of a person. 

All of the agents around her look the same, the man beside her could easily be mistaken for a corpse. They’re sick, and it’s the type of illness that visually rots from the inside out. 

“Oh, you poor baby,” Aksana croons, “they really ought to make the warning label on Hazy-Daisy bigger. Let’s just write certifiable on her forehead.” 

“Enough.” The edge of warmth Isabella has begun to expect in Hitori’s voice is gone, and its absence sticks out acutely. He sounds dangerous. Aksana goes quiet with a huff, but her face is filled with dread. Isabella wraps her arms around herself.

Psych ward. Hazel doesn’t seem that brittle. Did Hitori pull her out of a mental hospital for this? Who the hell is Hazel if it was that important she be here? 

A low metallic moan pulls Isabella from out of her thoughts and she instinctively grabs at the armrest as the plane jerks. There’s a vicious, punishing shove from behind, like the back of the plane got slammed into by something heavy, and her guardian goes tumbling forward, nearly falling into Hitori’s lap. Aza swears under his breath, quickly moving back and snapping his seatbelt on. 

“Are you—?” Isabella starts to ask.

“Fine.” 

Hitori looks like he’s trying not to laugh as he taps at his seatbelt in a silent told-you-so. Aza sneers at him. 

The plane releases another groan before a loud, rumbling sound starts to spin around them. It’s loud, reminding her of the old washing machine the hermanas used at the orfanato as it tried to take off during every cycle. Isabella used to sit against the wall and let the rattle numb out her thoughts. It’s close to that, has the same sensation, but there’s just this—thing. 

Not the engine. 

Wind, Isabella realizes. It’s wind. 

She looks out the small window and sees snow beginning to circle around them like they’re in an enormous, wintery cocoon. Hazel. She’s making a wind tunnel for them to travel through, inside of the storm, but protected from the worst of the blizzard, keeping ice from forming on the wings. Aero-Telekinesis, holding a plane in the air? Mierda, what kind of magic-user is Hazel?  

With a final, painful lurch, the plane is sucked into the tunnel and thrown into the air. The transition is about as gentle as Isabella imagines Hazel can make it, but her ears pop violently nonetheless and she grimaces at the drop in pressure. Aza’s hands are bone-white around the armrests, eyes squeezed shut. 

It takes a few minutes before the plane levels off, the button for their seatbelts clicks off, and Isabella’s stomach finally stops trying to wring itself inside out like a rag. Now that they’re in the air, Isabella feels the engine start and the plane settles. Outside, their tunnel doesn’t stop. 

Hitori unbuckles himself. “Is this your first time on a plane, Ms. Alvarez?” The warmth is back like it never left. Dios, he’s so disconcerting. Isabella gives a small nod. He pats her hand in reassurance and she jerks at the contact, looking down at his hand. It’s warm. He’s so warm. His following words are far away, like he’s underwater. “It gets better, I promise. Take off and landing are the worst part. Try to get comfortable, the flight is going to be several hours long.” 

Hours? 

“Where are we even going?” Aza asks as Hitori starts to move away. 

Aksana offers with a smile, “Hell.” 

Out of the woman's line of sight, Hitori does something close to rolling his eyes, before he corrects, professionally flat, “The Kansoka building.”

“Wait, you mean…” Isabella’s throat goes dry. “The headquarters of NAMCU. In D.C.? Washington D.C.?” 

Hitori nods.

Oh god. Isabella looks at Aza frantically. He’s always been adamant that D.C. wasn’t an option for her. There’s a reason they stuck to the West Coast of the United States, even if she doesn’t fully understand what. As Aza was teaching her to drive when she was twelve, she remembers he had her put the car into park one night and just stared out the window into the darkness for a while before turning to her. 

America is dangerous for you, mija, his voice had been level but Isabella could tell he was scared, Aza is usually scared in all her memories of him trying to be in control, D.C. more than any of it. We have nowhere else to go, or I would take you there. You will stay away from the capital, do you understand? 

They couldn’t go back to Mexico, not with the warrant for her arrest, or the looming threat of Edmundo Diaz’s enslavement of Aza. The last place the DMI would look for both of them was America.

That’s what they thought, anyway. 

Her guardian’s teeth are visibly set when he grabs Hitori’s arm hard enough to bruise, dragging him to a halt before he can make it more than a step away. “I thought you were taking us to a field office. It’s too dangerous for Isabella to be in D.C.” 

Hitori’s hand tightens into a fist. “It will be the safest place for her now, Mr. Alvarez. We’ve exposed Isabella, if the Dread Daughter learns what’s going on, she will be killed. Being surrounded by six thousand of the best trained magic-users in the nation will go a long way to keeping Isabella safe, I promise.” 

Aksana’s staring at Isabella again, something about her gaze hungry. Isabella wishes she would look at anything else.

“Do you think that’s something that could happen?” Isabella asks, forcing her eyes away from the blonde.

“The Dread Daughter figuring out what’s happening?” 

That would mean that the Dread Daughter has government connections, wouldn’t it? Yeah, Isabella has heard the conspiracy theory lobbed around that the Freeze was the CIA’s idea, but it’s never held any weight to her. The US government tends to put its efforts into killing off magic-users, not their entire population. That was the point of the Freeman’s Genocide thirty years ago, wasn’t it? Systematically purge out all the magi, they nearly made air-user’s go extinct here. 

Hitori’s face tightens fractionally, “We hope not.” 

“You hope not?” Aza repeats, incredulous.

Hitori takes the seat in front of them again, pulling his arm away from Aza. His expression is grave, but he addresses Isabella as he says, “There are no guarantees here. I need you to understand that. We will do our best to keep you safe, but I can’t promise that nothing will happen. We don't know who the Dread Daughter is. She could have help from government sources, and if that is the case, yes, it is very likely she will learn what’s going on before our attack.” 

He is the government. Why wouldn’t he know? 

“Then why are you bothering?” Aza demands. “She’s hidden from every law enforcement agency in the country for a year. You really think she’s stupid enough to walk into a trap?”

Hitori’s lips press together for a moment, unhappy. “No. I don’t. But what I do know is that hundreds have been hospitalized or killed this week alone. We’re not going to wait around until she kills everyone. If all I have is the small thread of hope that she won’t figure out what we’re doing, then I’m going to cling to that.”

Hundreds this week. It’s…it’s a huge number. It doesn’t seem real. But six million are already dead, more sick, homeless, and starving. Thousands more will be affected in the next six weeks. 

Isabella needs to fix that now. Because they told her to. Because she’s going to kill someone. She’s not just a victim in the Freeze anymore, she has to do something about it. 

Ay, Dios. The Freeze has always been miserable and unavoidable, but it was never her problem before.

“I need to make a phone call, try and relax,” Hitori instructs her before getting up. He vanishes into the cockpit a few seconds later and Isabella wishes he’d come back. Despite everything, he has a calming presence, and he’s kept Aza’s temper contained. 

Once he’s gone, Aksana leans toward them, resting the tip of her sheathed sword against the ground, propping her hands on the butt, and then resting her chin. “Aza, darling, if I guess your former ability first try, will you tell me your name?” Aza opens his mouth and Aksana sighs dramatically. “Your actual name.” 

The question sounds like one Aksana has asked a lot, a bored first grader’s way of passing time. 

“Why do you think I’d willingly relinquish control to you? Do you think I’m an idiot?” Aza demands.

Isabella’s stomach squeezes. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t. Not after what Padre Diaz did to him. 

Has Aksana honestly ever gotten a demon’s name out of them like this? They wouldn’t be that stupid, right? If Aza gave her his full name before death—first and last, middle if there is one—Aksana could command Aza to do anything and he’d be compelled to obey her. 

Padre Diaz did, he knew the name of Aza’s host, and he knew the name of the ghost currently inhabiting them. He loved to flaunt that control and ownership for the first ten years of Isabella’s life until the fire happened, and they left. For as long as Isabella can remember, Aza was his slave, but she thinks he must have been years before she was born. She still remembers the vicious way that the Padre’s eyes would glint when he ordered Aza to pick up a knife and hold it against his throat when he misbehaved. 

You don’t want your girl to see all that blood, do you? He’d ask, because he would make Aza do it in front of Isabella. Padre Diaz used to call her that a lot. Chica de Aza. When he spoke quickly enough, it would run together into chicadaza, and he’d call her that like a name. 

“It’s the thrill of Russian roulette,” Aksana waves a hand, and Isabella realizes, perfectly and acutely, that Aksana is just being mean. This is her mocking him, putting him in his place. I can make your life very miserable, Padre Diaz would say, and she can see that same glint in Aksana’s face now. “Hm, let’s see. You strike me as a bit unstable. Rumor is, you’ve already shot three people today alone.” She clicks her tongue, then hedges, “I’m putting all my money down on Spiritualist.” 

“No,” Aza lies through his teeth. Isabella doesn’t correct him, completely frozen. How did she know that? 

“Mm. Pity. One of these days.” Aksana’s expression clears of its dry amusement, and she adds, voice somber, “You didn’t even try to run. So yes, I do think you’re an idiot, Aza Alvarez. You should have run.” 

And with that soothing sentiment, the conversation grinds to a complete, deathly halt. 

The first hour of the flight passes in anxious silence, but by hour two, the tension has built to a point that her body can’t sustain it anymore. Isabella falls into an uneasy sleep, her head resting against the window.  

She’s not really sure how long they’ve been on the plane when they land. The sound of the wind tunnel dying is what really wakes her. She’s groggy, and can’t remember where she is before the weight of reality enfolds on her again, like a blanket from hell being settled lovingly around her shoulders. 

Murder. Kidnapping. One shitty, shitty Troll Bridge. 

She digs her fingers into her forearm again, pushing into old bruises, and picks her head off of Aza’s shoulder. She doesn’t remember shifting to lean on him instead while she was sleeping, and tries not to think about it. 

The plane lands without an incident, this time with the landing gear and the engine, which must mean the weather is clear enough for it in D.C. 

Looking out the window, Isabella sees that they’re in a small airport on the outskirts of a large property several acres in size at the edge of the capitol. The Washington Monument looms in the distance like a massive, ugly pencil. She's heard that it was almost completely reconstructed after Emperor Todenhöfer's Water Elemental, Siren, flooded D.C. in the only assault Lendaria made on the US during the war, but she can't see the difference from a distance. 

The agents have started picking up their gear, checking weapons, and putting back on their helmets. Isabella watches as Aksana sweeps her long, now-braided hair into a helmet, becoming indistinguishable again. 

Weapons are held comfortably in every hand, a silent promise. Run away, little girl, watch what happens. 

They wouldn’t even need to restrain from using lethal force on her. Aza would die, but not her. She’s not that lucky. 

Isabella’s stomach knots, but despite her anxiety, she’s more exhausted now than before she fell asleep. Magic is twisting in her fingertips, pushing against the nerves of her fingers like a bruise. It’s warm in her chest and she clenches her hands into fists and shakes them out. 

Hitori returns from the front, tired. “Sergeant Morozova, meet us outside.” 

The words draw everything in her to a grinding halt. Sergeant? She knows enough about NAMCU ranks to know that aside from Hitori, whatever he is, that means that Aksana Morozova is the second highest ranking agent in the entire plane. And if she felt comfortable enough to complain about Hazel and tell them to run in front of her subordinates, they’re screwed. 

Aksana straps her sword to her hip and barks “move out!”, voice muffled beneath the helmet. The agents all get to their feet and leave the plane without another word. 

Isabella’s breath escapes her fast. Hitori gestures her up wordlessly, and she follows him and Aza on numb legs toward the exit. Aza is a step in front of her with careful movements, watching Hitori like the agent is some sort of timed explosive. 

Aza rarely misses much. Hitori Adachi is dangerous, and Isabella can’t be stupid enough to let his calm demeanor relax her into complacency. 

Maravilloso. This is just...just the best day, honestly.

Hazel leaves the cockpit as they reach the exit, her footsteps silent. She looks haggard. Bloodless, yet still flushed with fever. Her balance is shot and Hitori has to grab her when she staggers, stopping her from toppling down the stairs. 

Hitori helps her upright, swearing. “I told you to eat at the hotel.” 

“I had coffee,” Hazel pushes a shaking hand into her forehead, squinting up at him. “It was instant and everything, I put sugar in it.”   

“You put—” Hitori releases an exasperated breath, “You’re hopeless. I will sic King on you.” Hazel sticks out her tongue and Hitori flicks it in retaliation before swinging her arm across his shoulders. 

Isabella stares at them like they’re aliens, unable to stop herself. That…wasn’t what she was expecting. 

Huh. 

So the two of them, at least, aren't just co-workers looking for excuses to strangle each other.

Isabella’s brow furrows as she looks at Hazel. Was she using magic the entire flight to sustain the wind tunnel? That was consistent, heavy magic for hours straight. What average magic-user has that level of endurance? Isabella doesn’t think she could use magic for that long without passing out and she’s—

Well. 

Could that really have all been done with Aero-Telekinesis alone? What’s the weight limit on the ability? Aza was right, wouldn’t it take something like Pressure Generation to lift thousands of pounds? 

Did Hitori pull her out of a mental hospital and off of magic-restricting drugs to retrieve Isabella? How desperate is he? Or, a voice in the back of her mind insists, or maybe Hazel is—

Isabella cuts it off, shoving it into a dark corner. No. Not thinking about that.

Outside, the sun has already set. They left just after six p.m. in Cali, and even though it’s almost May, the time zone difference means it’s what? One a.m. here? Two now? Later? This isn’t like Mexico, where most of the country ran on zona centro. It’s dark, with only the city lights in the distance, and bright, blistering spot lights from guard towers to see by. 

The temperature is somewhere just above everyone-is-losing-a-toe. It’s not actively snowing, but everywhere she looks, Isabella sees a blanket of white. Over the long runways, the nearby buildings, the trees, and decorative landscaping leading up to a massive, ten-foot tall fence surrounding a large property, topped with barbed wire. There’s a single well-guarded entrance in and out. Four towers. 

The building inside the outer gate is more wide than tall, with an enormous domed top taking up the center, like the Taj Mahal. The upper floors are made of wood, transitioning down into concrete and decorative marble. It’s old, but looks like it’s been constantly dragged away from retirement because modern additions keep being added, leaving it resembling a mansion doing its utmost to morph into a castle. 

Isabella descends the stairs, wraps her arms around herself against the cold, and gets herded forward again, surrounded by her escort and their weapons. Their presence is like a slow-acting noose, she can’t stop being aware of them. Hitori punches in a security code to get them inside the grounds at the entrance of the gate at all. When they get to the main entrance of the building, Hitori flashes a badge to get inside. 

NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF MAGICAL CONTAINMENT AND USE is written in silver over two sets of revolving doors.

The inside of the Kansoka building smells like a hospital and a hotel crashed into each other. There’s a lingering scent of some sort of freshener that reminds her of autumn spices with no identifiable source. 

The main floor is large and circular, with a round desk in the middle, several people seated behind it despite the hour, and dozens more gathered in front. Hanging above their heads is NAMCU’s logo, suspended by thick wire strings. A circling staircase is around the edges of the room, going up for several stories. Someone could probably leap over the railing of the highest floor, slide down the cable and safely land on the desk, which just makes it seem like a glamorized tower. A stained glass roof is at the top of the tower, coated with snow. Without any overcast, sunlight would have streamed directly on the logo. 

Several flags are hung around the room and a few famous American paintings are inter-spaced by windows with sets of chairs beneath them. George Washington crossing the Delaware, the Sacrifice of Air Elemental Awinita Kansoka, and the Freeman’s Genocide. They have a painting tributing the genocide of more than a hundred thousand magic-users being hunted after Emperor Todenhöfer was killed. That’s a normal thing for an organization that insists it cares about the lives of magi to memorialize. 

She pulls her eyes away from the painting, and stops mid-step as she actually takes in the large gathering of people in front of the desk. NAMCU agents in varying degrees of tactical gear and professional attire, half a dozen men dressed in black men and—

Dios, no. 

“Ms. Alvarez,” the Vice President of the United States removes a cigarette from his mouth between two gloved fingers, looking exhausted and upset, like he’s been crying or he wants to start. He takes a step forward to meet her halfway, taking her hand in his free one to shake it, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, truly. Welcome to NAMCU, I trust your travels were uneventful, yes?” 

There's something about Lucian Thatcher’s presence that looms. It’s hard to gauge his age visually, late thirties—older? Early fifties?—but he has streaks of gray in his thick, messy blond hair. It’s long, drawn up into a bun at the base of his neck and coming undone to fall around his eyes. It looks more white than blonde, but not from age, it’s just so vividly platinum blond. 

His eyes are dark aqua, more dark green than blue in the light. He’s dressed in a black three piece suit, with a long white coat pulled over, there’s a necklace tapping at the edge of his sternum, the charm is old, the red ruby faded and lusterless. He’s well built, easily a foot taller than Isabella’s miserable five foot one, and her hand is practically swallowed in his. 

His grip is bruising. 

He stares at her the longer she doesn’t speak back. 

“Thank you for your cooperation Isabella, I understand this isn’t easy and you must be scared.” Mr. Thatcher says eventually. His soft voice has a faint Eastern European accent she can't place. He smells vaguely of blood and smoke. On the inside of his right wrist above the edge of is glove is an old, faded tattoo that says MK1-001. Why does he have a license plate tattooed to his body? That's so weird. People do that on purpose? 

Isabella doesn’t know what to say. Her mouth just moves for several seconds, like the hinge of her jaw is broken. “Um, I—” 

Aza grabs the back of her hood and hauls her back a step, wrenching her out of the contact. Unprepared for the sudden movement, Isabella’s stomach makes a violent lurching motion to her throat. Her guardian puts himself between both of them, he's not even trying to be subtle about it.

Mr. Thatcher stares at Aza for long seconds, blinks once, and then his head tilts. He looks at him, and looks, and still doesn’t seem capable of processing it. His face gets distinctly pained. Slowly, he extends a hand to Aza, who doesn’t take it. “You must be the demon I’ve been hearing about. Mendoza, was it?”

“Alvarez,” Aza corrects through gritted teeth. Isabella doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not their real name. Isabella doesn’t know her family name and she doubts Alvarez was Aza’s. Mendoza works just as good as any. 

Mr. Thatcher’s eyes drop to the scars on Aza’s hands. “...If you say so.” 

“I didn’t realize you were going to meet us here, Luka,” Hitori says behind Isabella. He does not sound happy about the intrusion and it makes her tense up. “I thought we agreed it would be best not to overwhelm Isabella.” 

Mr. Thatcher glances at a tall white man with dark hair half shaved off and multiple piercings including a nose ring. He’s standing beside a wiry, Chinese-Korean man who’s dressed immaculately, but has such a wide-eyed expression he looks like he’s being hunted for sport. “The last time the Fire Elemental was seen was almost half a decade ago in Mexico, Hitori. Forgive me for being unwilling to wait. I would like to be here for the Earth Elemental’s recovery as well. I can help you.” 

“Do you think that’s funny?” A white woman in her late thirties snaps, taking a step forward. She’s built like a gymnast, her dark brown hair is shaved in a short military crew cut, a tattoo stretching up the left side of her skull. It’s the silhouette of a mermaid in dark blue and black. Isabella recognizes her instantly from the news. 

This is Joelle “El” Jackson, one of the members of the Elemental Magic Council, the four joint-leaders of NAMCU. Jackson is either the councilor for water or air. That’s how she knows that Chinese-Korean man. He’s a councilor too. For earth. He’s in his mid-thirties with a hard face and brown eyes hidden behind circular glasses. The other two councilors—Something Ziadi maybe, and…she can’t even begin to guess at the councilor for fire’s name. Kieth?— aren’t in the room.

Mr. Thatcher brings the cigarette back to his lips, like he needs to take a drag before he’s calm enough to speak. “Ellie, please, I don’t think that this is the time to make a scene. As Hitori said, Isabella doesn't need to be overwhelmed.” 

Councilor Jackson’s face clenches reflexively. Isabella can feel an explosion building like a shaken soda bottle, but she can’t tell who is going to twist the cap first and start it rolling. 

Mr. Thatcher exhales, plumbing smoke, and he looks up at the ceiling as if he’s asking for strength while Councilor Jackson just stands there. “What am I going to do, love? Bite both of them?” 

Councilor Jackson says, cold, “Hard to imagine where I got that idea, isn’t it?” 

“If this is about my son,” Mr. Thatcher’s jaw sets, Isabella sees his tongue set against the back of his teeth. “You know perfectly well what you did, Ellie.” The words look like they open a wound leaving his mouth, gaping and bloody. 

Councilor Jackson’s entire body locks up. “Go to hell.” 

Mr. Thatcher isn’t offended or even surprised when he turns back to Isabella. There’s too much pained misery in his eyes. “My apologies about her, she can be very irascible. It’s difficult to supervise. I advise you not to take anything she says to heart, she bites and I’ve had no success weaning her off of it for twenty years.” 

Isabella stares at him blankly for a moment before she remembers that the Vice President is who the EMC reports to. That must be why he’s here. He’s overseeing everything so he can report back to President Han. 

The President Han.

Who must know about this plan. And approved of it. And knows who she is. Which is…okay. Yeah. That's absolutely horrifying. 

It occurs to her only after there’s a few uneasy chuckles, that Mr. Thatcher was trying to make a joke. 

Councilor Jackson moves in front of Isabella, around Aza. Her voice isn’t gentle, just less sharp when she addresses her, “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Alvarez. I’m El Jackson, this is Liam Wen,” she gestures toward the other councilor, who comes closer to offer his hand. It’s calloused and scarred from things she can’t even begin to imagine. It makes the texture of his skin rough. 

On the inside of his right wrist, like it’s matching Mr. Thatcher’s license plate tattoo in some morbid way, there’s a long, thick scar from one end of his wrist to the other vertically. He stiffens visibly when he catches Aza’s eyes. 

“And our parade of assistants.” Councilor Jackson offers a sweeping gesture, encapsulating the man with the nose ring Isabella saw earlier. There’s another young adult beside the nose-ring man that looks vaguely like Aksana, but with hair so dark it’s almost like black silk. “Councilor Zidan and Carter send their apologies they couldn’t be here. Something came up.” 

Zidan, not Zidadi. 

“About what?” Hitori asks. 

Councilor Wen blinks several times like he needs to drop himself back into this plane of reality, and he looks away from Aza, pushing his circle glasses up his nose. “I—I’ll debrief you about…” he’s looking at her guardian again. “It’s been…ah.” 

He knows Aza, Isabella realizes. How does Aza know a member of the EMC? 

Councilor Jackson puts her hand on Wen’s shoulder. The two of them share a look, brief but intense. Her eyebrows raise in question and he shakes his head. She looks back at Hitori, not letting go. “Mozie wants to talk to you.” 

Hitori looks resigned. “About what?” 

“What do you think?” Councilor Jackson looks deliberately at Hazel. “Call him.” 

Mr. Thatcher turns to Hitori, horrified all at once. “You didn’t tell him you were taking her?” No one says anything fast enough, so Mr. Thatcher keeps going, almost sputtering, “After all the shit that you’ve given me, you took her without his explicit permission? Hitori, it’s nearly been two weeks, and with what happened to his husband, what happened to Zeeko—” 

Councilor Wen lifts up a hand, his pointer finger appraised slightly. There is nothing but murder in his eyes, when he finally pulls them away from Aza. “Please leave, Luka.” 

Mr. Thatcher falters. “What?” 

Councilor Wen presses only the pads of his fingers against Thatcher's chest, and he doesn’t push him. There’s a deep green jade bangle on Councilor Wen’s left wrist, it peaks out from underneath his sleeve.

“Get out.” 

“I’m trying to express concern for him, for all of you, this isn’t some sort of—” Mr. Thatcher looks at Wen’s face, and Isabella watches as he gives up. “Fine.” It’s spat. “It’s late, you should get some sleep, Li. As should you, Ms. Alvarez.” Mr. Thatcher seems to remember she exists, turning to her all at once. He takes Isabella’s hand between both of his to shake it again despite Aza’s resentful tension beside her. Her guardian looks ready to stab him in the throat. 

Councilor Wen puts himself between them physically when Mr. Thatcher tries to take a step in Hazel’s direction, and the Vice President’s misery just gets that much worse for it, but he says anyway, “Hazel, it’s good to see you upright again. You weren’t doing well the last time we spoke. I trust it’s…better, now?” 

Last time? 

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Hazel’s arms are folded across her chest tightly, the gesture so painfully self-soothing it’s almost embarrassing. 

She’s met the Vice President, too? Is this something that just happens to NAMCU agents? They go into work, solve crimes, kill people and shit, meet the Vice President, go home, rinse and repeat? 

Mr. Thatcher sighs. He puts the cigarette back between his teeth. The Vice President and his security team leave the building shortly afterwards, and tension bleeds from Councilor Jackson as soon as he’s gone. 

Several more introductions are passed around. Isabella shakes more hands, but she couldn’t remember any names if hard pressed to do so. It’s impossible to miss the overwhelming relief at her presence. They honestly believe that she can help, and rather this realization bringing a sense of purpose or pride, all it does is dredge up guilt. She’s not some savior racing in to rescue them. Isabella's just…Isabella. She didn’t even consent to be here. 

After enough thanks has been given for the word to have permanently lost any meaning to her, Hitori finally motions for Isabella to follow him upstairs, while the councilors stay behind to watch them creepily, or something. Isabella really isn’t sure. She thinks they told her, but audio processing has never been her strong suit when stressed. 

Isabella is led up to the third floor before stepping out onto another landing. Hazel and the NAMCU agents that arrived with them are a half step behind. This landing is smaller than downstairs, but no less clean. No windows, but a similar set-up as downstairs save one thing: instead of a desk, the far wall is encased in large, black marble. White letters are dotted everywhere and it takes her a second to recognize them as names. 

Isabella’s eyes slide up toward the plaque in the center, written in large English and then a smaller translation of Japanese below it.

IN MEMORY OF THE UNJUST ATTACK ON TOKYO MAHO SENSHU GAKKO FOR THOSE WHO DIED OR ARE MISSING. 

WE REMEMBER AND REGRET THEIR LOSS. 

MAY GOD BLESS THEY LIVE TO GO HOME.

August 19th - Lest We Forget

Donated by Hill Industries

Below the plaque are hundreds of names of the missing or deceased in English. She doesn’t remember the exact number, but she’s pretty sure it was below a thousand. 

Some of the names are painted in red, which Isabella assumes is based on the memorial monument the U.S. gave to Tokyo along with their formal apology six years ago for the entire disaster. The red names are the Japanese who were found and sent home after the tragedy. By her visual count, it’s maybe sixty names, which is sobering. 

Although plenty of people have claimed fake Elementals since Lendaria before, Japan insisted they found an authentic one eleven years ago. The night that they were going to introduce them to the public, a massive group of Americans bombed the school and dragged hundreds of students and staff back to the US. It’s been over ten years now, without another word spoken about that infamous Elemental. Those sixty-odd survivors are probably the only ones going home. 

Isabella’s eyes drop to the table set in front of the plaque. It’s filled with fake flowers, unlit incense, and dozens of personalized notes, most in Japanese. One in English, scribbled hastily, just says “thirty days sober (again) Mom says she misses you, Ak — K.” and the sheer simplicity of it makes her sick. 

She’s seen photos of the aftermath in Japan, but it’s…it’s real here. All these missing people, they’re not just faces in news stories, or pictures to prove how bad something was, they have families, lives, people who still miss them. 

Dios. Is there something like this in Mexico City to remember everyone who died in the fire? When she looked it up, the estimated body count was in the hundreds. She’s seen pictures of the destruction, she knows the restoration costs were in the billions. 

Hitori’s gaze lingers on a name on the mural for a long second before he turns around. “Dr. Williams, will you take Isabella to the sleeping quarters? I need to discuss something with Mr. Alvarez privately.” 

Shit. Shit. 

No. Absolutely not. She doesn’t want to be alone with these people. She doesn’t want to be alone with Aza either right now, not with how scared and volatile he is, but she’d rather have him than not. At least if he’s with her, she can pretend this is anything than what this really is. She and Aza are just moving together, on the run one more time, she hasn’t actually been kidnapped. 

“No.” Aza says, taking a step toward Isabella, and she shifts toward him, too. Everyone in the room remains impassive. How can they all just ignore Aza when he sounds like that? Don't they hear the threat? Don't they get what that means? She can't just leave. It's not safe. 

“Izzy,” Hazel tilts her head in the direction of the hall. “Hey, come on.” 

Behind Aza, the agents are looming with their weapons. Dios. Look at her. The previous Fire Elemental was at the head of an empire. Wraith was the embodiment of destruction, he and Siren alone wiped out most of Mexico’s royal family, they’re the only reason Rafael Zozoya made it to the throne, Lendaria’s little puppet king. 

She doesn't feel right. Her stomach is knotting, twisting and twisting. The pain is making it hard to breathe let alone talk. 

“Can I…can I just wait for him?” Isabella manages to get out. “Please?” 

What do you think, little girl? Magic is burning beneath her hands again, the veins in her hands beginning to vibrate. Waiting, almost like a taunt. Mexico City all over again? Isabella takes a deep breath, but she can still see her fingertips glowing. 

Hazel is staring at her, caution etched into every feature. She lifts up her own hands, placating. “Izzy,” she says, voice calm. Her gaze flickers up, behind them, to the agents. To the guns. Aza is so very mortal behind her. “Everything is fine,” Hazel promises. “Calm down.” 

“No one is going to get hurt,” Hitori promises, but his hand is inching toward his hip, where she can see a service weapon.

They’re afraid of her. The idea is laughable. She’s not the threat here. 

“You will,” Aza says, close enough to touch. Isabella’s heart leaps into her throat. His voice is shaky, but he doesn’t have any weapons. “Isabella, we need to go. Now. Kill them.”

Kill—

Isabella staggers back a step, blood draining from her face. She looks at him, and for a moment, she’s ten, and the men that stormed into the orfanato are putting a gun to her head and Padre Diaz is yelling at her to kill them and she’s ten and she’s ten and—

“What?” The word is choked. The agents are inching closer, like a noose tightening. Aksana has her sword drawn. She sees water wrapped around several gloved fingers. 

They’re prepared to hurt her. To hurt Aza. They will. 

She can’t inhale. Will bullets feel like the glass from the crash did, when it lodged through her body and severed her spine? She couldn’t walk for two weeks. Would it feel like the pain of waking up in the morgue, her nerves slowly easing themselves back together? When Aza put her in that wheelchair to get her out of the hospital and Isabella begged everyone they passed in broken Spanish to help her. When Aza—

Aza. 

Kill them. 

Aza wanted her to kill…no. He wants her to. There’s no remorse in his face despite her desperation to find it. He killed Dr. Hawes in front of her without a second of hesitation. That’s what he just told her hours ago. If you were in my same position. It’s getting harder to breathe. 

She’s not a killer. Not after Mexico. Not even then. She didn’t mean to hurt anyone. She just didn’t want to die. The magic had pushed out of her like a scream. 

Aza is staring at her and NAMCU is around her ready to kill and she’s going to suffocate in this room in front of a memorial for the dead which is a level of irony that should be illegal and— 

Oh god. Oh god. Ay, Dios—

A hand grabs her arm and Isabella flinches, whirling around, fist swinging, fire all but exploding from her fingertips. Hazel catches her wrist before she can make contact with the air-user's face. She lifts her other hand, a white glyph hovering over her palm and clenches it into a fist. The fire goes out as the oxygen is pulled from the flames. 

Isabella stares at her, exhaling a faint rasping sound.

They just look at each other. Into each other. Where Hazel is touching her makes Isabella’s skin warm. Her heartbeat slowing, calming, an insistent sensation of safety pulsing through her body. 

“Isabella!” Aza hisses. “Isabella, come here.” 

Hazel lowers Isabella’s hand but doesn’t let go. Instead, she starts to pull Isabella toward the adjoining hall by her wrist, ungentle. Isabella doesn’t stop her. She doesn’t know what to do. The idea of facing Aza makes her nauseous. Going with Hazel isn’t much better. There are no good options here, but she can’t look at Aza and she’s not going kill—

Dios. 

“Isabella!” Aza shouts behind her, moving. Isabella looks back at the sounds of a struggle. Aza is being held by several agents, trying to wrench himself free. “Let me go! Isabella!” 

“I—” Isabella starts to pull back, but Hazel’s hand is iron, and she’s still moving. Isabella wrenches her arm until it seems like she's going to pop her shoulder out of the socket, but all it does is make Hazel twist her wrist up behind her back and push her. “I shouldn't go. I have to—wait! Aza!” 

There’s a snap of bone, and Isabella looks back again to see Aza lowering his elbow from someone’s broken nose, wrestling to get control of a gun, moving fast, fighting like someone really will die if he doesn’t. 

Isabella fights Hazel harder, desperation making her stupid, something in her shoulder is about to pop out of place. The next five seconds are all blurry snapshots in her head. Hazel grunts. Isabella and Aza make brief, fleeting eye contact, there’s terror in his gaze, and he lifts the gun up and aims it at Aksana’s head. Hitori shoots him in the knee and he goes crashing to the floor with a cry of pain. 

Isabella cries out with him. “Aza! Aza! Oh my god—!”  

NAMCU agents follow him to the floor, pinning him down, there’s already blood leaking out. Hitori is watching everything, not moving, his back to her. Aza calls her name again. Nothing is coherent, she doesn’t understand what he’s saying. 

Isabella's vision is turning a pale, flimsy gray. Like she's seeing everything through a dirty glass. Her head feels funny. 

She should…stop this. She should—The world makes a strange rocking motion, the gray filter getting splotched with black dots. Her face is going numb. Hazel doesn’t let her escape, she pushes her down the hall, around another corner, Isabella can’t even cry. Her ears are ringing.  

“Hey, take a deep breath,” Hazel’s voice is sharp. “Isabella. Breathe.” 

“Can't… can't…” Isabella wheezes and starts to slide toward the floor. Hazel lets her, taking hold of her shoulders instead, swearing under her breath. 

The other girl squats down next to her, hand awkwardly moving to her shoulder. Safe, her body insists. Isabella wants to scream at it. Liar, liar, liar. She bites her tongue, refusing to cry, and clutches at her scar in a death grip.

She starts to get up. Hazel shoves her back down. She didn’t even try. She has to go out there, fight him, why did she do what she always does? What she did with Sawyer, what she did with Padre Diaz, she just stands there and freezes up like a hunted deer. 

“I have to—” Isabella breathes, trying to get up. “Aza—just let me—” 

“Isabella.”

“No, no—you don’t understand,” Isabella insists, attempting to shove the air-user’s arms off. She’s shaking so badly, her arms won’t hold her weight even when she tries to use them to stand. “Please, please, just let us stay together, please. He’s all that I have. Please.” 

She has to get him. She has to get him. 

“There is nothing you can do to stop this,” Hazel says, emphatic. “Stay down so I don’t have to hurt you.” 

She could kill them. 

Isabella’s mouth dries. The thought is as instinctive as it is sobering. She can’t. She can’t kill anyone again. But if she doesn't kill anyone, she can’t help Aza, and she can’t just sit here and let it happen. What if they kill him? What if they exorcise him? She starts to get up again. Hazel pins her in place with Aero, and Isabella shudders under the weight of unseen fingers securing her to the floor. 

Isabella is pretty sure Hazel says something else, but it’s blurry. Her heart clenches in her chest, inside its cage, beating erratically. 

Isabella sucks in a deep, gasping breath. Then another. Hazel won’t let her guard down until Isabella is calm enough to pass for cooperating. Deep breathes. Lengthen the exhales. After several, struggling hisses, she manages to get her breathing under control. 

Hazel’s hand on her shoulder helps more than Isabella wants to say. Something about her presence is overriding the panic, but it’s in a way that isn’t natural, it’s like getting Xanax pressed into her bloodstream. What the hell is this? Hazel is studying her, expression unreadable. Her stormy eyes are dark. 

“Sorry,” Isabella mumbles.

Hazel’s jaw works for a moment before she asks, her voice stiff but there’s genuine concern in there somewhere, “Are you okay?” 

Is she…? Isabella stares at her. Really? What does Hazel think? Isabella has to work her jaw so her voice comes out steady at all, and the words are clogged with tears instead of dry and sarcastic the way Aza would have said them, “I’m the poster child for emotional well-being.” 

Hazel’s eyebrows raise a fraction before she lets out a startled, strangled sound that takes Isabella a moment to recognize as a laugh. “Yeah, I picked up on that. C’mon.” She grabs Isabella’s arm and pulls her to her feet. Isabella blinks back the beginnings of a headache, trying to get her bearings. 

She looks toward the hall they came down. Hazel sets three fingers against Isabella’s chin and tips it back to look at her. “They’re already long gone, and you can’t storm this building as a one-man army unless you’re very powerful or really stupid.” 

Isabella forces herself to glare. “What if it’s both?” 

Hazel huffs, darkly amused. “Okay. Be my guest then.” Isabella doesn’t move. The air-user carries on without missing a beat, her voice fractionally less hard, “Aza will be fine. He’s going to be held in the detention center until this is over. It’s the only reason we let him come with you, but,” a significant pause here, “you knew that, and so did he.” 

Yeah. 

They did. 

Isabella swallows thickly. The shitty, shitty Troll Bridge only really applies to magi, which Aza isn’t, and NAMCU doesn’t work with demons. She knew this was coming the moment they got on the plane together, but she’d been hopeful and allowed herself to indulge in being naive. She’s just lucky they’re holding Aza at all, but she’s not stupid enough to think they’ll let him keep possessing his host before this is over. Why would they? NAMCU was built on the foundations of demon exorcisms, that was the point of them for a century. 

They’re going to kill Aza. The closest thing she has to a father, and they’re going to kill him, and she let him come with her so she could see it because she was too selfish to force him to stay behind. 

“Are you going to fight?” Hazel is gripping her wrist like they’re shaking hands. Isabella is holding her too, and she doesn’t know why.  

No. Isabella bites on her tongue and wraps numb fingers around her backpack strap. “Are you going to hurt him?” 

Again, something at the back of her mind whispers, they shot him.

Hazel’s face is so hard to read. “Not unless we have to.” She puts a hand on Isabella’s shoulder and steers her forward. 

Even if Isabella did kill them and rescued Aza, what then? There are thousands of NAMCU agents in this building. They would never make it off the property in one piece. It would take an army to lay siege to it. She should have done something in California, but everything was moving so fast. Sawyer hadn’t even stopped bleeding in his apartment when they were being swept in and out. Hitori was barely there for ten minutes, if even that. 

Hazel takes her down another hall, past a dozen closed doors before she stops. She flashes a badge that says DR. H. WILLIAMS - E.I.S AGENT in big black letters and the door clicks open with a muted beep. Hazel shoves open the door and takes a step back, graciously letting Isabella in first, showing her to her cell. 

D.C. has never undergone a mandatory blackout since the Freeze started, the government claiming the entire city a necessity, but Isabella still flicks on the light switch with caution. The bulb in the center of the room blinks to life immediately. It takes effort not to stop in the doorway and flick it on and off compulsively just because she can. 

The room is simple. A bed with gray covers, a chest of drawers, a desk with an ugly lamp, and an adjoined bathroom. Isabella looks back at Hazel, who’s moved to lean against the doorway. 

“This is where you’ll be staying,” Hazel says, stuffing her badge into her pocket. “It can’t be opened without a card, so don’t bother trying anything.” 

Isabella looks at the gap in the doorway. Hazel shifts to block it. So this is glorified prison then. Not that Isabella was under the illusion that this was anything else, but she thought NAMCU might try to be more oblique about it, given all the thanks they gave her. At least they're all on the same page. She turns back to the room, tossing her backpack on the bed. 

“Cool.” 

“Phone,” Hazel says. Isabella looks up at her, puzzled, until Hazel outstretches her hand pointedly. “Give me your phone.” 

The urge to refuse comes and goes. Isabella can’t call for help, NAMCU is the police. She has no friends, Sawyer is in California, and she can’t rant about this online, that did Jacob Hill very little good and he’s one of the most famous men in the US. Keeping it would be pointless. 

Isabella withdraws it and puts it in Hazel’s open palm. The other girl pockets it without another word. “Izzy,” Hazel’s voice has gained life, if reluctantly. She trails off when Isabella looks up at her. “This isn’t a prison, and it won’t be forever. You don’t have to be scared, no one is going to hurt you.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Isabella demands before she can stop herself. She flinches back from the harshness of her voice. Hazel does, too. Isabella sucks in one deep breath, another. “I know what NAMCU is, Hazel.” 

Hazel’s face has gone perfectly blank. “Right. Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Isabella glares silently and waits all the way until after Hazel has left and the door is closed, automatic locks engaged before she flips her off.

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