End

Sam’s stomach was unsettled. The short flight was a nauseating ordeal, the small plane jostling him relentlessly. He hadn’t spoken up, or spoken at all, for fear of vomiting. It’s embarrassing to be sick on a private jet, he figured. Though for his first and perhaps only time on a private jet, it had been a perfunctory experience. The plane itself was lavishly appointed but plainly coloured, and the interior just large enough for himself and his captors–the same detail of four besuited Magenta security. The journey was blessedly brief, ending as quickly as it began, at a tiny, unmarked airport in a suburb he didn’t recognise.

“Let’s go,” said the man in the Spex, marking his dozenth-or-so word to Sam since this sojourn began.

The lot of them went straight into a small bus, which drove itself the short distance to a massive helicopter which waited on a nearby pad. It was a deep purple and seemed to sparkle as the sunlight hit the paint. In Sam’s mind helicopters were round death traps made of tin and glass, the passengers hanging on for dear life as they shouted to each other over headsets. But as he went up the steps and inside, he saw this was more akin to some kind of luxury booth. A plush purple sofa wrapped around the interior, and each headrest was embroidered with the purplish-red M of the Magenta Corporation. He found a spot at the very back, dropped his backpack onto the ground next to him, and waited.

“Is this some kind of custody,” he’d asked, and they’d seemed offended at the implication. “Then what’s happening,” he’d responded, and they’d admitted they didn’t know. By the time they’d reached the luxury helicopter phase, Sam had resigned himself to no longer care.

As they closed the outer door he looked out at the rest of the cabin. His section was still empty aside from himself, and a frosted divider with a small door separated him from what, until now, had been his security detail, along with someone else he didn’t recognise.

Imogen could hear the whirring of the blades in the distance. Another minder. The last one will have been punished for something. Had they caught him playing games in this room? Or had they discovered what he brought her? Information from the outside had been off-limits for years now. That much she had remembered. But how would they stop this new person from sharing what they knew? How did they ever? Threats? But soon they would be here, judging by the sound. Soon, she’d just ask them herself.

“If you can hand over your Ring and earbuds, you won’t need them anymore.” Samir complied, and his face must’ve betrayed his confusion. “It’s all off limits here,” the man explained.

The helicopter cleared a small hill and dropped down low. On the ground, Sam could see a fence line that seemed to stretch on forever. SUVs were stationed at a gate, and some men leaned against the sides. He craned his neck in an effort to see more, and almost missed sight of the concrete helipad. He gripped the sofa as best he could as they came to a rest on the ground.

She hid herself away, lest she be asked. The minders could see her, though it was frowned upon. But the men who brought them could never. She couldn’t remember when she’d been told that, but she assumed it was the early days. They had never bothered to tell her again as she hadn’t needed reminding. But as she lurked just inside the door to the upstairs bathroom, it all began to feel silly, how her life had led to this. She remembered a lot now, almost too much. But she couldn’t remember why she’d ever thought this was okay.

“You look after the house,” the man continued. They’d transferred from the helicopter to a car which bounded down a dirt road toward what Samir assumed was the house. “Take care of anything that needs doing, fix what breaks, follow the list of chores. There’s a day shift and a night shift, you’ll be on day. You’ll cross over with the night shift for an hour. You both have rooms in the back house. The kitchen back there is for the cook, he’d appreciate if you just ask him rather than trying to use it yourself. That’s for both of your sakes.”

“Sir, I…” The words piled up in his head in no particular order, and he felt ill-equipped to sort them. He felt unmoored in a way he hadn’t since that night in London, the first night he’d met Gemma.

“Grocery deliveries once a week, and there’s no restriction on what you can do in the main house, so long as the primary occupant is okay with you doing it. But I suspect you won’t want to spend too much time there when you aren’t working. She’s a bit off.”

“Primary occupant?”

“And that’s the only rule. Do not ask her any personal questions. Not even her name. You call her ma’am, or miss. Do not engage if she shares anything personal with you. In twenty years this has never been a problem. It’s become a problem the past year. But that problem dies with you. Understand?”

Samir sighed. “Not at all, sir.”

“You’ll get there.” The car pulled into the paved horseshoe driveway of a massive two-story home. It looked out of place in this vast field, as if it had been lifted from a suburb and dropped here. The white wooden siding trimmed out a powder blue exterior, and a small deck wrapped around the second story, though it seemed mostly for show–there were no exterior doors, only windows with the curtains drawn. “This is home now,” the man said with a pat on Sam’s back. “Welcome to Oz, Dorothy.”

The back door had shut. The house was empty now, except for her. She had mere moments. Whatever time there was between his exit, and the new one’s entry through the front. They would enter alone, as they always did. This would be her only chance, and she would have to be ready. Her usual pyjamas lay discarded on the floor. She had her real clothes now, the ones they’d left to rot in the boxes. She scurried across the upstairs hallway and arrived at the top of the stairs. The door to the front was just down there.

Samir pushed the handle down and the door opened. He removed the key from the lock and stepped over the threshold. The entryway was a pleasant hardwood, and the decor was chilling in how generic it was. Auto-gen photos of vases and landscapes, printed and hung in antique frames rather than displayed on screens like normal. He spun round and pushed the door closed behind him, which took some force. It was twice as thick as you’d expect, and sealed tight with a satisfying thud. The lock on the inside was also keyed, and he locked himself in as instructed.

The blow to his head was swift. He stumbled forward, a choked cry escaping as the bag slipped out of his hand. He spun, pressing himself against the door. Before him towered a rail thin woman, expressionless, the book she struck him with still in her hands.

“Oh,” she uttered softly.

“What the fuck!” He stood straight, though still had to look up at his attacker. She seemed a bit older, with very fair skin, and swam in an oversized charcoal hoodie. Her jeans were ripped, a bit long for her, and the tips of tatty Converse poked out from underneath them.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she raised the book again.

“Don’t! I’m from Magenta!” Sam cowered and covered his face with his hands.

The woman lowered the book and sighed. “I know.” She took a half-step back and sized him up. “You’re so much smaller than the last one.”

He kept his hands in place. His head started to throb from the blow he’d already taken. “The… the last one?”

“I never knew his name. There’s been so many. Always men, for some reason.” She demurred, her long silver hair falling across her face. “It’s not that I forget their names. I don’t think I ever know.”

“Okay…”

“You came in the helicopter?” Her speech had started rather slow and methodical. But the more she spoke, the faster she got. “I did too, I think.” She narrowed her eyes. “They told you not to ask me anything.”

“They did…” Samir couldn’t shake how familiar this woman looked. The more he stared, the more it gnawed at him. The man’s words caught his tongue. Not even her name. He stared at her hoodie, the most curious part of her. Some hand-drawn white skulls surrounded enormous letters that read R.I.P. In a flash it struck him. He reached for his bag on the ground, and the woman once again wielded her book. “Wait, it’s just. I just need to get something.”

“Please,” she said. It was starting to seem like the woman had no plan. Had she expected the book to knock him out?

He tried to indicate the bag to her with his eyes. “Can you get it, then? It’s just in the front.”

She looked at him and his bag with momentary suspicion, but curiosity seemed to get the best of her. With a careful kneel down she picked up the bag and unzipped the front pouch. “What’s this?”

“It’s a photo.”

She pulled the photo out of the bag with two fingers and stared at it. “Goodness.” On the back, Samir noticed a year hand-written: 2026. “Look at her,” the woman whispered. “So young.”

“You have the same hoodie,” Sam said. “The black one that says rest in peace.”

The woman smiled. “Yes, though it’s faded now. Like everything.” She continued to stare, and brought the photo closer to her face. “But it’s so nice to see Charlie again.” She stroked the photo with the back of her finger. “Is this you? You were the one who took this?” She laughed. “My blue hair. Goodness. Thank you. It’s a beautiful photo of a terrible night. I have no photos of her. So few photos of anything.”

“No, that’s not me. That’s… that’s my friend Seb.”

“Charlie thought he was a bit boorish.” She laughed. “It gave us something to talk about other than the fight.”

“Charlie? Who is Charlie?”

“Rest in peace,” she repeated after him. “That’s what it means, you’re right.” Her eyes had brightened considerably, and she was speaking more clearly. She seemed almost lucid.

Samir studied her. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh. R.I.P. was my goth nickname in high school,” she scoffed. “I thought I was so cute.” She pointed a long, bony finger at each letter on the hoodie.

“Rebecca. Imogen. Prue.”